A Rose in the Mist
by Narya of the Fire
Summary: It has been two years after the Great Tragedy and a rich Parisian buys the Opera Populaire. But Erik is still there and still carrying his love for Christine. What will happen when Christine returns to Paris to see the newly restored Opera Populaire? EC
1. The New Owner

**Disclaimer: **All is property to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber and all those other filthy stinking rich people.

**A/N:** This takes place 2 years where the story left off. I am added elements of all three mediums of the story, the novel, musical and movie (2004). I love aspects from all three mediums, but I would highly suggest that you have at least read the book or know the book's aspect of the plot, because a majority will be based from the book. If you have read Susan Kay's "Phantom" there will be a small number of elements from that as well, like Ayesha.

Oh, and I am not a historian and I am making up a number of names out of my butt. Don't flame me about my inaccurate usage of names, dates and people.

This may start off sounding like a really bad Mary-Sue but I PROMISE this is an Erik and Christine story.

Please give it a chance. I abhor Mary-Sue stories and this will not be one of them.

Enjoy!

MXIVIVIXM

The young fourteen year old Linette deCour looked in awe at the renewed splendor of the _Opera Populaire. _It was amazing at how in just five short months her father had contracted if from its previous owners, Andre and Firmin, and transformed the rapidly disintegrating; crumbling opera house into the grand structure was restored to. Her father, Percival deCour, had been a Parisian Aristocrat his entire life and was only too happy to jump at the offer of owning the world famous _Opera Populaire_. Linette had often found herself wondering why the heavily wealthy de Chagny family hadn't swiped off the relatively cheap offer considering their long history with the _Populaire_. But when her father had questioned the Vicomte de Chagny about the matter, he just sent them off with a wave of the hand and a 'good luck'. Linette had been lucky enough to join her father on that venture, but was quickly puzzled as to why the wealth and prestige of the de Chagny name wanted no part in restoring the run-down theatre. For five solid months Percival had been in non-stop contact with contractors, carpenters as well as new actors and ballet dancers interested in a new career in the fine art of the Opera. Quickly and steadily the job had been taken care off and it was as if the grace of God was sanctioning them on their mission to restore the _Opera Populaire_. Even the usual contraction and construction troubles were avoided and they had restored it in a record amount of time.

Linette was standing just beyond the large finely crafted doors that led inside the _Populaire_. Percival was standing with three of his best friends and business pals, Audrey Chapman and Tyson Zidler. All three had been into business ventures their entire lives and Tyson was currently working to gain the deed to the world renowned cabaret the Moulin Rouge. Linette's mother, Voletta, had expressly forbid her daughter from ever going near Zidler's business dealings or even Zidler himself unless her father was in the vicinity. Audrey had teamed up with Linette's father in running of the _Opera Populaire_. "This has indeed turned a great profit. I cannot wait to see how business dealings will go," Linette heard her father say. Percival deCour was a tall, robust man with a mop of thick rustic hair and honey colored eyes. He always wore a fine quality business suit and hat, and that day was no different.

"I must agree. Great fruit of profit has indeed been planted her on this day. It is only a month until we can officially re-open the Opera Populaire," Audrey said. His hair was an inky black greasy paste, often combined with immeasurable amounts of hair gel which directly contradicted his liquid white complexion. He, like her father, more often than not, wore a black silk suit with a silk top hat. Audrey had grown up in a wealthy family environment, much like Linette's family, and was very stiff in character. He was not married, nor 'burdened', as he would put it, with progeny to carry on his family tradition. Linette disliked Audrey immensely but always kept her feelings to herself.

"We could open even sooner if we could find a cast and crew production. There is indeed no shortage of magnificent plays we could produce. All we need is the cast, band and ballet," Percival replied enthusiastically.

"If that is all you really need, then might I suggest some of the players I am familiar with," Tyson joked with a smile. Despite Voletta hatred for him, Linette liked him a lot and broke her restrictions about him. Tyson was slightly plumper than his two accomplices but made up for it with his jubilant nature and love for a good dirty joke. Linette liked him a lot with his jokes and humorous nature that, in her mother's words, polluted her premature mind.

"I doubt that we need the sort of cast that you can provide us. We intend for this to be a theatre the entire family can enjoy, not just the dirty old scoundrels looking for a cheap brothel," Audrey retaliated with his voice full of disgust. Percival laughed, as did Linette.

The group of four people immediately surveyed the theatre and its baroque styled architecture. Dozens and dozens of beautiful golden nude statues were everywhere and they decorated the brightly illuminated room beautifully. Linette gazed at the statues enviously in their perfection. She had always fancied herself as far from perfect as one could get. Touching only five feet, two inches, Linette was a good deal shorter than all of her friends and family, even her grandparents. Her hair was neither the delicate blonde nor exotic brown that she envied in the girls around her, but instead a mousse colored mixture; it was needle straight and kept back in a long plait that fell to the middle of her back. Her skin was a healthy looking tan, something her mother always complained about, from spending too much time out of doors chasing the neighborhood cats. Instead of taking a liking to the normal indoor loves of cooking, cleaning and embroidery, Linette fell in love with the exciting outdoors. Instead of attending poetry readings, she would climb the trees outside and tear her stockings, much to the dismay of her governess and mother. Linette didn't really care though. "Linette darling, why don't you explore this new house of splendor? If there is so much as a crack wrongly constructed or out of place, you will report it to me and I will set those lazy construction workers straight," Percival said to his daughter with a laugh.

Linette giggled and nodded. She knew it was just an excuse to get her away from the boring business talk and dealings of her father and friends. Linette was glad to leave; she did not want to be troubled by the incessant talk of money, toils and politics. Linette took off up the grand looking stair case. She couldn't wait until it was opened again. Her mother had made sure that as a child, Linette had frequented opera houses and shows. She knew many of the stories from memory, as well as many of the songs although she could not sing them. Her voice was as flat as bull frogs and she not, for the lives of her, possible understand all the musical terms and alphabet that so many people had tried to instill in her head.

'_Papillon would love this,'_ Linette thought as she passed what looked like the band stand surrounded by paintings of famous composers. Papillon was one of Linette's only friends. She was two years her senior, 16 years old, and lived in the streets of Monmartre. She was greatly gifted in music and art. The name 'Papillon' was only her nickname, her real name was Od'ette; she hated her name, according to her it made her sound like the rich chumps that often gawked and laughed at her in the street. Her parents had died when she was little and grew up in a small orphanage just on the outskirts of Monmartre. She would often linger at the late cabaret clubs of the Parisian night and sneak her way into the opera houses to hear the beautiful music that was played. Papillon's job was as a freelance artist. She drew and painted anything she could sell, but putting her heart and soul into everything she worked on did not guarantee that it would sell. More often than not, Papillon would sneak into Linette's room and stay the night because she had no where else to go. Despite all of her young hardships, Papillon remained dreadfully optimistic that she would become a world famous composer and artist. Linette had talked her father into hiring Papillon to work at the _Opera Populaire_ as a flautist and as a place where she could sell her art.

Linette became so absorbed in the rich surroundings that she had become hopelessly lost. She hypothesized that she was somewhere near the back with all of the ballet dormitories, but she could not say for certain. Mentally scolding herself for not keeping record of her steps, Linette spun her heel to turn around but she suddenly felt every hair on the back of her neck stand up on end. "Who's there?" she squeaked, suddenly feeling that someone was watching her. Her cinnamon brown eyes darted in and out of every dark corner and crevice she saw but nothing. The feeling of being watched still lingered. A pregnant silence filled the room and Linette felt her heart thumping painfully against her breast.

Suddenly she felt something wisp by her ankle. She squealed in fright. Linette looked down franticly but a wave of relief and stupidly fell over her as pair luminescent amber eyes gazed back at her. A cat slinked in and out of the dark corners. A slight smile came across Linette's face. "Are you what all the fuss was about?" she cooed. The cat just looked sternly at Linette as if daring her to come any closer. The cat had light brown fur and little cinnamon dipped paws. A Siamese. Linette had never seen one, save for the pictures of them in the library books she often borrowed. "I didn't mean to frighten you," Linette said softly. "I'm sorry if I scared you". Almost as if understanding, the cat slithered forth from the shadows. The cat appeared it was well fed and cared for it had the healthy slender body that a Siamese cat always possessed. Linette put forth her hand and softly caressed the cat's soft fur. She had three cats at home, 2 British Short Hair and 1 Red Tabby called Sapphire, Scamper and (by her father's own deeming) Damnit. Linette had named Sapphire and Scamper but no one could think of a name for the tabby cat. It would always pounce on her father at the most inopportune moments and each time he would always exclaim "Damnit", until the cat just thought it was his name. Voletta just rolled her strict matronly eyes at the cat's name. Papillon liked Damnit the most out of the three cats.

"Ayesha, what trouble have you caused now?" a deep voice said. Linette's eyes opened as wide as saucers. Fear jumped through her veins. Under her fingers, the cat gracefully leaped out from them and went to the ankle of a black booted foot. Linette dared not to look behind her. From the moment her father had bought the _Opera Populaire_, he had been warned by the previous owners of the infamous O.G., Opera Ghost. Linette did not believe in such superstition, but she could not help but wonder as the soft tapping of footsteps was heard behind her. "What have we hear, an intruder in _my _Opera house?" he said dangerously.

Gathering every once of courage she had, which wasn't much at that point, Linette stood up and faced the ghostly figure in front of her. He was tall, very tall, and clad entirely in black with a long black cloak that trailed the wooden floor. His hair was slicked back but Linette could not decipher its color, whether or not it was dark brown or black. Across his mighty looking visage was a white leather mask that completely covered the right half of it. Linette began to tremble. Andre, Firmin, and even the Vicomte de Chagny had warned her father of a man who black and a mask who called himself the Opera Ghost. "Please don't hurt me," Linette said, every muscle in her body was shaking with fear.

"What brings such an innocent child to my dark lair?" the man asked with deadly venom and sarcasm in his voice. Linette looked at the cat which was purring and rubbing her face against his ankle.

"Please Monsieur, my father has purchased this Opera House," Linette managed to get from her lips.

"So I see. The fools just are too thick to learn to keep off from my door step," the Opera Ghost said. His eyes seemed to be perfectly in sync with the blackness of the room Linette was trapped in. He glanced down to his cat, "Ayesha you have indeed brought forth more trouble it seems," the cat gazed up lovingly at its master and 'meowed'. She then leaped up onto his shoulder and then again to the rafts above their heads. He then turned to Linette, who was still shaking uncontrollably. Erik smirked in spite of himself, even though two years had passed he still inspired fear into the hearts of the dunderheads who ran his theatre. "You say that your father has bought my theatre? Then tell me, what brings you into such a dark and desolated corner? Do you purposefully look for trouble or do you seek the _murdering fiend_ responsible for the _great tragedy,_" he spat out.

"Monsieur I did not mean to disturb you. I became lost. Please don't hurt me," Linette pleaded. She had been told that the Opera Ghost was, as he self proclaimed, indeed a murdering fiend who systematically killed Philippe de Chagny, Joseph Boquet as well as many others, and he had attempted, nearly succeeding in killing the Vicomte de Chagny. It had also been ominously hinted that he was the one responsible for ruining the career of La Carlotta. How was she, a mere fourteen year old girl, going to escape the hands of a lunatic murderer?

"You will tell no one of my existence. Those bumbling fools all believe me to be dead and it will remain as thus," he threatened. His eyes flashed a deadly yellow as Linette cowered in his presence. His hands went into the back of his cloak and gripped his Punjab Lasso. He pulled out from beneath his cloak and glared at the little girl threateningly.

"Wh-w-what are you g-going to d-d-do with th-t-that?" she stuttered, fear gripping her every nerve and paralyzing her.

Erik smirked, "Just making sure that you understand that you are not to tell a single soul, living or dead, of my existence," he said, taking a threatening step towards the little girl.

"Don't hurt me," Linette squealed with tears streaming down her face. She didn't want it to end. Her father had just started a brand new future, she didn't want to die.

"To make sure you…_understand…100 percent…perfectly clear_," Erik said. He took a leather gloved hand and wrapped the lasso around her neck and tightened it just enough up to the nape of her neck. Flashing another dagger with his eyes, Erik disappeared a cloud of thick smoke and Linette was left alive trembling from head to foot with her red, tear stained face and puffy bulging eyes.

MXIXIVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

Long live Erik! (Snuggles my Erik plushie)

Please R&R. More reviewsmore chapters much quicker.


	2. In the Shadows

Welcome back for chapter 2. This one will have a more Erik/Christine setting. I know the last chapter only featured Erik very briefly, so he will be in this one a lot more.

**Disclaimer:** All I own is my love for Erik. Everything else is property to everyone but me i.e. Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber, Susan Kay, and other such geniuses. I own Linette and her family, which is it.

**A/N:** Set around three weeks after previous chapter.

**A/N 2** I hate Raoul. I will try and make him seem at least halfway decent but please don't hurt me if I say something to offend all you Raoul fans. My secret wish is for the Phantom to strangle Raoul with his lasso. Well at least in _one_ movie version Raoul dose die, although that is the same movie version where Erik picks up a cheap hooker. With that said, I still hate Raoul.

**A/N 3:** Should I include Nadir/The Persian? Should I include Jules?

**A/N4: **If you have any questions about the musical terms I use, let me know and I will explain them to you. And the conductor is the embodiment of one of my 2 band teachers, Mr. White and Mr. Theodorson. I won't say which. If anyone out there is in the LCHS band you know exactly which one I am talking about XD

_Viva La Fillette Revolutionnaire UTENA _

Ayesha rules! You cannot have a phan fic without Ayesha

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM

Christine could hardly believe her eyes when she read in the paper that the _Opera Populaire_ was being re-opened. The young woman had been sitting with her husband in the parlor in their grand mansion chatting idling about simple things when one of the butlers, Corbin, had handed Raoul the morning paper. His eyes had gone as round as saucers when he read aloud the headline "**The Opera Populaire Is Back in Business**". Forgetting the lady-like decorum she had been taught her entire life, Christine yanked the paper from her husband's hands and eagerly began reading. The new owners were two men by the name of Percival deCour and Audrey Chapman. She could only pray that they had more than half a brain like the two pompous fools who ran the opera previously. Firmin and Andre may have made a good deal in the junk business, '_Scrap Metal if you please,'_ as Andre would say it, but they knew nothing of running an opera house. It had all gone downhill from the moment they had shown up. She scanned the article three times over before earning a stern glance from Raoul and she folded the paper up neatly and placed it on the table between them.

Her life with Raoul had not been everything she had expected. There was a clear cut class difference the manor in which she had grown up and her new life with the high class Aristocratic society. It had taken a good deal of months before Christine had become fully accustomed to her new life. Instead of her usual nature she had to abnormally stiff and silent as was expected by women of the Parisian Aristocrats. It was only in the few short hours she spent alone in her room with the door locked that Christine could sing her heart out as she had done every day in her days as both a Chorus girl and Prima Donna Soprano. No longer could she sing in the opera theatres. Raoul would not permit it. That had been the cause of their first and only serious argument. In the end Christine did not want to jeopardize their nearly bound marriage and she quickly gave into his demands. Although Christine did indeed love Raoul she thought of her phantom every day and wondered what become of him.

She would always ponder what her life would have been life if she had chosen Erik. Christine could not help but feel that in some strange perverse way, her life would be more satisfied with Erik. She would be able to sing and make music to her heart's content all day, and night for that matter. Erik would always encourage her voice and he would often indulge with her in song. There was no doubt and denial that a part of Christine belonged to him, and always would. He had torn a piece of her heart that she would never get back. Although he hid it very well, Christine knew of Raoul's bitter jealousy and resentment towards Erik. Erik had truly loved her, as Christine figured out just an hour after she left him in his lair of darkness. But it was only on her wedding night that Christine finally realized that she truly did love Erik back. Yet at the same time she loved Raoul. Christine often found it strange how she could love two people so much at the same time and yet the love between both was of an entirely different nature. Erik loved Christine for who she was and nothing more or less. He knew her true nature and soul outside and in. Her Phantom offered everything that he could give to her. If Christine had been one to believe in soul mates, Erik would have been hers. He was soulful and sensual at the same time, but never losing his beauty and amazing genius in music. Raoul loved Christine in a companion-like and childlike way. He was playful and always a safe pillow she could fall on. Christine knew that she would never have to fear Raoul leaving her and had been childhood friends.

Christine knew in the heart of her very being what actually had been the deciding factor in her fateful choice. It was not about who she loved more, it was about who was or wasn't going to die. She did not want to see her best friend and childhood sweetheart hung by the hands of her Angel of Music. If indeed Erik had killed Raoul she would not have had much of a life to live because the price for killing a Vicomte was death by hanging. Their entire life would be lived on the run as she well knew, and assumed that Erik knew as well but didn't care about. Deep down Christine knew that if given the choice all over again and neither one would have died she would have chosen Erik. At first she fought with her subconscious but now Christine had given up entirely and did not deny the truth that was in her heart. Often she suspected that Raoul knew this as well and was the main fuel for his fire of hatred and jealousy against Erik, but the subject of Erik was never discussed. In the two years that she had been living with Raoul, never once had the merest peep of the word about Erik had been muttered. Christine liked it that way; that way she would have to keep her feelings confined within her so no one became hurt.

"It says here that their new show will make its debut tomorrow eve," Raoul said lovingly.

"I cannot help but wonder if it will be anything like it was two years ago," Christine thought aloud. Originally she had begun to think about Erik, but when she realized she said it aloud Christine quickly changed it to the opera's condition. "Might I suggest that we see it for ourselves, darling?" she said casually. "We only live two hours from Paris. It would make a nice change of scenery," she continued.

Raoul shut the paper and looked up at his wife. A smile was on his face and he looked almost childlike. "Actually I was thinking the very same thing. I have a business meeting in Paris the day after tomorrow so we would be killing two birds with one stone," Raoul said cheerfully. Christine knew by his tone of voice that he did not like much the idea of returning to the opera house but did not want to deny Christine the closest thing to singing she had seen in nearly two years. Often Christine theorized that the purpose behind forbidding her to sing was not to attract Erik, if he was still alive, some which Christine had no doubt. In a way, she knew the truth to his suspicions. Erik would find her if she was singing anywhere in the continental Europe, not just in France. But Christine did not deny that she longed to see her angel again, to hear his perfect voice whisper in her ear and to sing with him as he brought forth the true talent in her voice that only the Angel of Music could.

Christine kissed Raoul softly on the lips to show her thanks for allowing her to go.

VXIXV

The Vicomte and Vicomtess arrived in Paris around noon the following day. It was at Christine's insistence that they leave so early. She was thankful that Raoul slept a good deal of the way into Paris in their carriage. Excitement like she had only known once before pumped through her veins. She could hardly wait until the reassuring sight of the _Opera Populaire_ was in view. As it turned out, the hotel they would be temporarily residing in was just two and a half blocks west of the Opera. As soon as they checked in, Christine hastily unpacked her bags. Raoul smiled at her childish ways. She was acting like a giddy little girl at Christmas. When opportunity was first made available Christine announced to her husband that she was heading down to her former home to get tickets. "Shall I escort you?" Raoul offered.

"No thank you darling," Christine replied with a tender kiss on the check. She grabbed the nearest cloak she could find, which just happened to be black, and dashed down the stairs and to her much missed home.

Christine could hardly believe how little everything had changed in her two year absence. Everything was just as she remembered. People dashed madly up and down the streets to make their appointments and strange tourists talked in their foreign tongues as they slowly passed by. The streets were crowded as always by dozens and dozens of carriages and taxies running to and fro. Every so often a lone person would wander in or out from the Opera. Christine tried her best to maintain her glee at finally returning to one of the places she once called him for so long. The season was currently fall and she was very grateful for taking a cloak with her. When Christine finally reached the Populaire, immediately she was greeted two men in expensive looking business suits. "Welcome Mademoiselle to the Opera Populaire. Are you here looking for tickets for tonight's debut show?" said the first man with auburn hair.

"Yes indeed I am," Christine replied. She assumed these two men were the new owners. They certainly strutted about liked they owned the place and their cloths were tailored in such high quality that she could do nothing but assume as much. "And, if it is not too bold to ask…" she said.

"Yes Mademoiselle?" the man replied.

"Well, when I was younger I lived here for almost 12 years. If I may be so bold… May I take a look around and see if it is indeed the way I remember it?" Christine requested. Her eyes were downcast. She knew she was certainly asking for much, but could not help herself.

"12 years you say? May I inquire your name?" the second man with inky black hair said.

"Christine de Chagny," Christine said modestly with all modesty intended.

Both men seemed to explode with excitement. "Vicomtess de Chagny? Formerly Christine Daae?" they said in unison.

"Yes Monsieurs," Christine replied.

"But of course you can. And you will get prime tickets in one of our top class boxes! Boxes 1, 3, 4, and 6 are already sold, but 2 and 5 are available," the second man said, looking eager for a business deal. _Oh yes, _Christine thought silently,_ they are very much the incarnations if Andre and Firmin…always willing to sell anything for the highest price. _On the other hand, she couldn't help but laugh out loud and the bitter irony that no one had yet purchased Box 5. It was without a doubt one of the best seats in the Opera and yet no one had laid claim to it yet. She couldn't help but wonder if Erik was still residing there and claiming his box for himself. _But then why would they offer it?_ For a few more moment she debated on Box 2 or 5. There was always the lingering idea that they had received instructions from the infamous Opera Ghost but ignored them as did Firmin and Andre. If that were so, if she chose Box 5, at least she would know the root of Erik's rage. If he was not there then there would be no fuss to be made at all. If Erik was still there, Christine couldn't help but wonder why he had not left.

"Box 5," she said firmly.

"Excellent. That leaves Box 2 for my wife and child," the first man said. "You said you wished to see the Opera House? Come this way Mademoiselle. We are deeply honored that you have taken an interest in our newly restored Opera," he said. "Oh how rude you must think us to be for not announcing ourselves properly! I am Percival deCour and this is…"

"Audrey Chapman. A pleasure to meet you," Audrey said. The two men led Christine to the doors and nodded to the gaurds to permit Christine to enter. Everything seemed the same. The staircase was the same magnificent structure it had always been with the hundreds of golden statues and paintings around it. The floors had just recently been polished and gleamed in their lustrous splendor as they always had.

Suddenly a little girl who looked to be no more than 14 years old dashed down the stairs. "Papa, have you seen Papillon?" She was dressed in a simple white blouse with a dark green skirt. Her hair was a mixture of dirty blonde and light brown which was kept in a long braid down her back, much in the same manor that Madam Giry often wore hers. Christine was vividly reminded of Meg; she often wore her long blonde hair in the same manor because it would get in the way of her training as a ballerina. She wondered what Meg and her mother were up to; how were they making a living?

"Linette where are your manors?" Percival scolded his daughter. They had an uncanny resemblance. She would have been mistaken as a female version her father had it not been for her long hair and color. Both had the same overall body structure, face structure and eye color. Linette quickly took notice of Christine and curtsied low. Christine smiled softly in return. She remembered the days when she had been her age, so full of energy and spirit and so willing to learn what anyone was willing to teach. "No I have not seen Odette. She seems to have disappeared again. You may want to check the galleria. She may be setting up her works there, or ask the conductor of the orchestra. Only the good Lord knows where she has run off to."

"I don't mean to be rude father, but who is she?" Linette pointed towards Christine.

"She is a special guest my daughter," Percival replied proudly. A wave of longing and jealousy hit Christine. Oh how she missed her father, Charles Daae. He was her best friend and father all at the same time. She would give anything in the world just to hear his voice again, or even his violin playing her favorite movement from _Lazarus Resurrected, _the song when he first wakes up from his sleep to see the world around him. "This is the Vicomtess de Chagny. Formerly known as Miss Christine Daae: the finest leading Soprano that the Opera Populaire had ever had. She even beat out La Carlotta," Percival said. He seemed even more proud that Christine felt. She had not purposefully meant to hurt Carlotta in the way she had, but it was just the way things turned out. If it hadn't been for Erik, Christine would still be a Chorus girl looking forward to nothing but a second Soprano part or the next big ballet scene. "Linette, would you be so kind as to show Mademoiselle de Chagny to the main theatre. I believe they are rehearsing at this moment. Act three I believe of _Lazarus Resurrected_?" Percival said.

"Yes father. Come this way," she said politely to Christine. She smiled and couldn't believe her luck. They were performing her favorite story as a child. As she walked, Christine could not help but look up into the rafts for a sign of Erik. A sad smile came across her face when there was nothing to be seen of him. When she came into the main theatre room Christine found that many aspects of it had changed. The stage had been rebuilt and was no longer made of rich oak but instead polished chestnut and the inwardly facing candles were now facing at the audience. The seats in the audience were of a different make and were no longer gold and crimson, but instead were silver and black. Overhead the chandelier which was once so dazzling and breathtaking had been replaced by a somewhat lesser one. Christine guessed that if it were ever to fall again, the size was reduced so the amount of damage would be less. The Baroque style nude statues were very much the same and they outlined the six upper boxes. Christine gaze immediately darted to Box 5. Nothing could be seen save for the dark red velvet curtains that engulfed the interior, as they did in the remaining 6 boxes.

Up ahead on stage a half score of people were currently dancing around on stage surrounding the main lead of Lazarus. The band stand was lowered, as it always had been and was playing the soft melodic tune that Charles Daae had always strummed with his bow on the violin. Tears began to swell in her eyes at the memories. It was Erik's favorite song to sing with her. She missed Erik so much and longed to see him again. Her thoughts where interrupted as the conducted loudly tapped his metal rod against the stage and began hollering insults at the supporting alto lines as well as shouting at the band for not getting their triplet runs correct. "ONE-LA-LI! HOW MANY TIMES MUST WE GO OVER THIS?" he shouted at the top of his lungs. "And THAT is a rest in-between the ascending and descending run! WHAT NOTE CAN YOU POSSIBLE PLAY ON A REST!" he shouted wildly while shaking his hands in the air to make his point.

(**A/N: **A natural. Again, if you are in the LCHS Showcase band, you know _exactly_ what I am talking about, as well as which teacher I based this off from XD)

Christine laughed. She remembered her days of being yelled at by the conductor and managers. Even Madam Giry had a crack at her several times for singing off key, forgetting a note, or leaving out a fermata. But once her training with Erik began she was never yelled at. Immediately her position had been upgraded from last alto to 2nd Soprano and then to leading Soprano once Carlotta had left. She owed everything to Erik. "Erik…" she muttered beneath her breath.

"Pardon?" Linette said.

Christine blushed and quickly made due, "No its nothing. Why aren't you in the production?" she said, making simple and kind conversation at the lonely looking girl.

"Who, me? I am the most musically blocked person on this Earth," Linette said, blushing. "People have tried to explain it to me, but my mind cannot grasp it. No Mademoiselle, I prefer climbing up trees and tearing my stockings to singing," she smiled up at Christine. She could not help but laugh. It had been the exact opposite with Christine. She wanted nothing more than to sing with all her heart's desire and join in with her father's beautifully perfect wave of crescendos and decrescendos, arias and fermatas, in harmonics and accidentals. She knew her musical alphabet before her reading one. "My best friend, Papillon however loves music. She cannot sing but instead plays a flute. According to her it is easier to remember scores of complicated fingerings than to use her voice. She plays in the band, my father was able to get her a job," Linette said. Again for Christine it had been the opposite. She had always found her voice the easiest medium to play, although she did know the piano and violin. Her voice just seemed to suite her the best and she sung it with the most ease. _Although not anymore_ Christine thought. She doubted that she could even hit an F without going sharp. Not singing in two years, save for alone in your room with no teacher did that to one's voice.

The conductor, up to his neck in frustration, called for a ten minute break. The cast and band members all got up to stretch their tired limbs. Out from the band stand a girl who looked to be 2-3 years older than Linette emerged. Her hair was light brown and fell in delicate curls around her shoulders. Bright blue eyes dotted her head. Now Christine understood what Linette had meant when she said that her father had gotten her the job. She wore a torn black cotton skirt with a wrinkled blouse. Strangely, her corset was worn on the outside, something Christine had never seen before, but was intricately embroidered with white lace. Her face was tarred by dirt; it was clear to see that she had no parents and had to work for herself. "Papillon I was beginning to wonder where you were," Linette said.

"Where else would I be?" she questioned with a sarcastic smile. "Who is this?" she said, looking at Christine.

"She used to perform here at the Opera. Her name is-"

"Christine Daae," Christine said. She did not wish to hear her formal title. She just wanted to relive the life she had known for so long, even if it was only for a few short hours. Again her eyes surveyed for any unnatural shadows, searching for a sign, for any sign that Erik was still alive.

Papillon's eyes widened and she said, "I can't believe it is really you! I was there when you preformed for the first time as the new Margarita. You sang beautifully. It really put La Carlotta to shame," Papillon said.

"Thank you. I cannot wait to see your new production. I will be right there tonight watching you," Christine smiled, point towards Box 5. "Your talent must be exceptional for you to already be in the _Populaire_ band at your age," Christine complimented. Even if Linette's father had gotten her the job, there was always the audition and the conductor to please. If you weren't the best of the best no one would hesitate to replace you for someone of greater talent.

"No please, you flatter me," Papillon said.

"ODETTE STAIRE!" The conductor shouted. "This is not social hour. We are in the middle of rehearsal!'

"Yes sir," Papillon said but couldn't help but cringe at the usage of her real name.

Again rehearsals resumed and Linette led Christine out from the main theatre room and showed her the back dormitories, at Christine's request. As they traveled further and further back she noticed the young girl become more and more tense. A muscle in her check twitched occasionally and she audibly breathed louder and at more frequent intervals. "Linette, are you well?" she inquired. The girl jumped at Christine's voice but insisted that she was alright. The older woman did not believe her, but kept her thoughts to herself. If Linette did not wish to share what was troubling her, Christine would not peruse it. However as they neared the very back, the hairs on the pack of her neck puckered up. It was not dark and in fact, was very well illuminated by the dozens of candles around them and the daylight pouring in through the windows. Even the sound of the band and Chorus rehearsing was still heard booming, as was the conductor who had taken it upon himself to lecture them even more on their triplet runs. A cat scurried across the floor in front of the pair. It stopped dead in its tracks and glared up at Christine. The familiar cold liquid amber eyes shot daggers into Christine. "Ayesha…" Christine mouthed. She did not want to frighten the little girl beside her who seemed jumpy enough.

The wind began to whisper against her ears and it said "…_Christine…"_ in the same familiar voice that she had yearned for two years. He was here and she knew it. Ayesha quickly ran up into the dark crevices that Christine knew went down to lake. Taking Linette's hand, Christine turned around and left, but the dark shadow that followed her from above the rafts did not escape her frightened eyes.

"…_Christine…" _the wind whispered again.

"Linette, are you alright?" Christine said again with all seriousness in her voice. The small girl looked up at the older woman with pleading eyes but nodded her head 'no'. _Erik, what have you done?_ "Why don't we return?" Christine suggested. Linette nodded and the pair walked, although with a hastened pace down again to the main theatre.

With Linette safe again in the main room under the watchful eyes of everyone there, including her father and Mr. Chapman, who were overseeing rehearsals, Christine walked Linette to her father. Even Erik would not try anything in broad daylight in front of so many people. Christine respectfully said her goodbyes and with tickets in hand, she hastily left the _Opera Populaire_. The longer she remained inside, the greater danger for everyone. If Ayesha still prowled the opera house than Erik had to be near. Ayesha went wherever her master went. As Christine walked down the staircase she saw a crimson rose on the bottom step. She picked it up, weary of the thorns, and fingered the black velvet ribbon that had been tied around its stem. Christine reached inside of her cloak and pulled out the simple golden ring that Erik had given her. She clutched it with all her might and let a solitary tear slide down her face. Slowly and careful so as no one would hear her she muttered, "Erik…I'm so sorry…I love you". Even if Erik had heard it, Christine did not care. Looking up again, she saw without a doubt, the familiar tall shadow in the rafts that blended in with the surrounding dark.

MXIXVIXIM

END CHAPTER

Well what do you think? Again, I do not like Raoul so I hope I offended no one, but still tried to keep in him character enough. This won't be one of those stories where Raoul is a senseless wife-beater (unfortunately there are too many of those). Raoul actually dose care for Christine, even if I don't like him.

Erik all the way!

Read and Review. Please…pretty please with sugar and a cherry on top


	3. Thoughts of the Past

Thank you everyone who reviewed! I love your reviews so much. They help, they really do.

**Queen of Hearts: **As to your question about Erik, in the book he made no butts about threatening anyone and I am basing it more from his personality in the book. Remember he killed Raoul's brother, and in a way took delight in how he frightened all the ballerina girls. He also used to torture people professionally in Persia before he lived in Paris. That is just my interpretation of him, but he didn't really do anything too bad to Linette, just threatened her. He probley did it to more than one person, guy or girl, to keep their mouths shut.

**LittleViperPhan**Yep, I said the same thing. How magnificent Erik could be reduced to a street whore is beyond my comprehension. It is the 1989 version, I don't know who directed it or played Erik. All remember was Erik screwing some hooker and Raoul dying! Oh and by the end, if you have never read the book, most people hate Erik. It is like Erik gone slasher. The movie focuses more on the gory deaths of everyone instead of the love story. But hey, Raoul was killed (mad phantom chicken dance). But it is better than the 1998 one where Erik was raised by rats.

**GAKDragonMCP: **Thanks for pointing out my mistake. Actually in Leroux's version, Christine's father is name Charles but you are right. In "Phantom" by Susan Kay, Erik's father is named Charles. But for the sake of Leroux, I hope I don't offend you or anyone else, I am keeping it Charles. Don't worry, Linette will have a thing or two to say in the future.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own nuttin…zip…zilch…nada. All is property people with insane gifts for writing, music and movies. I am just a poor high school student who is in love with Erik.

**Warnings:** Slight sexual references and Raoul acting like an arse. When dose Raoul not act like an arse? Some foul language ahead, but nothing too bad.

Again, I hate Raoul. Sorry if I offend all you Raoul lovers, I don't mean to. I am insanely biased in that aspect…poor little rich boy versus the insanely gifted and wonderful but cruelly cursed genius and discriminated man. Yes, I am biased, thehhehe. Well, at least I freely admit it. I have a secret fantasy to Punjab Raoul. There I said it!

**Note: **Leroux said that Erik had "golden/yellow" eyes, so I am keeping it that way.

Enjoy this chapter….

MXIXVXIXM

Christine left the Opera house as quickly as her dainty feet could run. She was extremely thankful the hotel was only a few blocks away. How was she going to explain it to Raoul should Erik make his presence known? It was painfully obvious that the little girl, Linette, had an encounter with him, one that she dared not to bring about. Yet at the same time she could not help but thank the Gods that Erik was still alive. Her Angel of Music still graced the Earth with his presence. She did love him, Christine could never deny that. He held a part of her heart that was his and his alone. And yet a small sector of it belonged to Raoul at the same time. Trying her best to keep her composer Christine slowed her pace slightly and poised herself as a woman of high class was supposed to look. A glitter of gold caught her eyes and Christine again put off her ring that Erik had given her. Raoul would explode in a rage of wild jealousy if he saw that his wife still had it. The ring would confirm what Raoul already knew, that a part of Christine still loved the mysterious phantom that had so nearly killed both them and destroyed the entire _Opera Populaire_. She was thankful her black mantle had several hidden pockets on the interior where her ring was safely concealed along with the rose.

Raoul greeted Christine lovingly when she entered the hotel room. Sitting next to him was one of his business associates. The pair was obviously deeply engrossed with a conversation about the gross profit and budget for their company in the following year. Not wanting to disturb her husband or become bored with the same tireless and dull money affairs, Christine took a seat on the tiny wooden balcony her hotel room provided. Two stories below her a group of laughing teenagers strolled by, too caught up in their own affairs to notice Christine looking down upon them. The young woman recognized Linette and Papillon among them, chatting idly to each other. A pair of smug looking boys joined them and made several shrewd jokes to the young girls, who blushed like two giggling virgins. Christine remembered how it was to feel so innocent and so estranged to a boy's advances. Of course she was not so foolhardy to welcome their perverse gestures; Erik would have had a thing or three, as well as a Punjab Lasso, to say about it.

Slowly but steadily so as not to attract any unwanted attention, she drew forth the rose from the back of her cloak and fingered the ebony ribbon fondly. Christine inhaled deeply the sweet scent that smelled so much of Erik. Raoul, like every other man alive, flattered Christine with flowers but he never used roses; she figured it was due to the rose was Erik's flower choice. Instead, Raoul would send her bouquets of lilies, snap dragons, petunias and pansies, but never a red rose. On a rare occasion he would use a white or yellow rose with the thorns already pre-plucked; never once had he used a red rose, much less with the thorns still on, as Erik did. Christine gasped as her finger was pricked and drew forth a tiny drop of blood against her skin of winter cream. A silent tear crept down the right side of her visage. It was not for the pain of her newly pricked finger, but for the pain at leaving Erik.

Christine snapped back into reality as the sound of leather boots was heard. She tucked away her rose and turned to face her husband with a smile. Raoul's blue eyes twinkled in the sun as he pecked Christine on the check. "I am sorry to have bored you with my business. It was unavoidable," he apologized. She smiled fondly at her husband and kissed him softly on the lips, accepting his apology. "Are you not cold?" Raoul asked concerned.

"No dear, I am fine," Christine responded. "I cannot wait until tonight! You will never believe what their new production is," she exclaimed as a child.

"What is that?" Raoul asked cheerily, taking a seat next to his beloved wife.

"_Lazarus Resurrected_! It was my favorite play as a child, as I am quite sure you know," Christine grinned excitedly. She knew it was best not to bring about the subject of Erik in Raoul's presence. She did not wish to argue with him on a night of joy, and there was no doubt that Raoul would order the entire police squad of Paris to guard the hotel and room she slept in, out of fear from Erik. Or rather jealousy.

"How could I forget," Raoul laughed. "I cannot even begin to count the dozens to times you begged your father to dazzle you with its song on his violin," he finished.

Christine's smile faded somewhat. She had to tell him what box they would be seated in. It would be better for Raoul to know then than right before the curtain rose. "And the irony gets even bigger," she said.

"How is that?" Raoul grinned.

"Our seats are in Box 5," Christine said as fast as she could.

Just as Christine predicted, Raoul's expression when from mildly happy to drearier than a cold rainy day in winter. "Box 5?" he repeated.

"It was the only box left. Please before you say anything I talked with the new managers," Christine pleaded. She would be lying to her husband but she didn't really care. It was her first chance in nearly two years to see her beloved home again and even catch a glance that Erik was indeed alive. Christine mustered the saddest pair of doe eyes that her face allotted. Raoul clearly made no sign of talking so Christine said slowly, "They have steadily made repairs and had operated the _Populaire_ for nearly six months. Nothing suspicious has ever happened. Both were told by Messieurs Andre and Firmin about its _past history,"_ Christine said, choosing her words very carefully. "There has been no letters…nothing…not even the merest mention of the initials O.G." she finished desperately.

Raoul said nothing to his wife's response. What if that…that…foul hideous…_thing_, for he could find it in his soul to name Erik a man, still lurked in the shadows. He did not to lose Christine at the hands of that vile creature. She had chosen him and it would stay that way. In the two years of the marriage, Raoul had soon learned the true nature of his love for his wife. Although he did love her unconditionally and undyingly, it took not but two weeks for the revelation to hit Raoul that he did indeed love Christine, but more as a childhood sweetheart or a best friend, not in the passionate awe inspiring manor he believe himself feel. Raoul knew that Christine would always be connected to her Angel-_no, _Raoul thought bitterly, _her demon _no matter how hard he tried he could never sever the tie completely, but he would be damned if that deformed abomination would lay a hand on his wife. In fact he had been very hesitant to allow Christine to return to the _Opera Populaire_. In the back of his mind the thought always loomed that Erik was still alive and would continue to haunt them. It was the main factor as to why he forbade Christine to sing. He knew it caused her great pain, but Raoul would never allow his angel, his wife to be laid claim to by another man, much less the lowly excuse of a man that haunted the opera house. No, he would fight off the Almighty Lord himself to keep the Opera Ghost away from his Christine. She belonged to him. And although Raoul did love her, she belonged to him in his mind. Their marriage had been the unofficial seal. Christine would never look at another man the same way again…she would only look at him, her husband. Only his hands could travel the intricate curves of her body and hear her moan his name in pleasure. Never would he allow that gruesome carcass to even look at her with the flame of lust in his eyes. Raoul would make sure of that. Dead or alive, that bastard would never haunt his Christine's tracks ever again. Erik would never even utter a single note in her head ever again, much less sings songs to it.

The Vicomte looked at his wife's desperate face and he could not help but be moved at her pleading eyes. He knew how much it meant for her to see the show. Raoul knew he would have no choice but to comply if he wanted to stay in Christine's good favor. And if Erik did make his presence known, which Raoul doubted, he would be ready. "Don't fret over it my dearest. We shall go. Our night will not be spoiled on account of _him,"_ Raoul said, speaking Erik's pronoun as if it was a disease.

Christine felt anger in her chest rise, but she chose to ignore it. Erik was not a disease and she hated hearing him being called as such. Throughout the years rumors had been spreading like wildfire all through France, not just in Paris, about the mysterious and psychopathic murderer, the 'Phantom of the Opera'. Each and every time Christine heard Erik's name being spoken with disdain and disgust she was forced to swallow her anger. They knew nothing of him. Those idiot women who spoke of nothing except the latest and most scandalous gossip were just that. Often Christine paid no heed to their uneducated words but when Raoul spoke of him she worked hard to contain her feelings. Raoul knew of Erik's true genius and yet he still referred to him as nothing but a hideously deformed creature. It angered her to no end, but she had always found room in her mouth to bite her tongue.

XIX

Erik sat in his lair; the pearly white candles bathed his black form in warm candlelight. Darkness certainly did suite him more than the light of day. The dark never dared to betray his secret as the light revealed all too flippantly. His only sanctuary had been in the dark cover of the velvet sky of night, or the black veil of his mask over the marred visage that had cursed him his entire life. For the first time in two years Erik was shocked. It was strange that crazy estranged killer that was the Opera Ghost felt shocked and flabbergasted at the presence of a single young woman. Most would scoff at the mere idea. Upon his lap Ayesha sat curled up and purring contently as his hands stroked her soft fur.

Strangely the maddened mob that had invaded his home two years previous had left, for the most part, his small sanctuary in tact. It took him only a mere month to replace what had been lost, destroyed or stolen by the mundane fools who dared to invade his home. As always, his mighty organ was bolted to the wall and sustained no marks or signs of wear or age. Draperies of black and crimson lined the entire cave as did hundreds upon thousands of candles perched upon golden gothic style holders. Little trinkets and knick knacks were scattered here and there, none with any real significance. Shotgun to his organ, piles upon piles of sheet music in their supple leather bounds had been building up. At the very bottom was very opera that had consumed him for 20 years to finish: _Don Juan Triumphant_. A small boat dotted the glassy black lake where Erik would come and go at his own pace. Small swells of mist rose and fell around the boat's rim but Erik paid no heed.

In the two years of her absence, Erik had done nothing with his life save for dwell beneath the _Opera Populaire _drowning in his grief and sorrow. Christine had been the only thing sustaining his presence and what remained of his sanity. Erik could feel his grips on control of his mind slowly slip. He really had been dying-dying from his love of his Angel. Christine may have seen him as her Angel of Music but in truth that was how Erik saw her. She had been so insanely gifted with her voice that Erik believed her a godsend to save him from his sadness. And yet it had all ended the same way as his life had been; she left because of his hideousness and deformed face. Erik loved her more than anything on God's green Earth. She had been his heart and soul. Christine owned his soul in the palm of her perfectly formed hand and in the beautiful melodic voice she sung with such ease. That was why he hated her at the same time. She had torn his soul and heart out all in the same instant, while simultaneously filling his soul full of hope…hope for dying in the loving arms of a wife who cared not for his mutated face. For weeks he had wept out of weakness, hatred and love. He was Erik the torturer, Erik the Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera, the murderer of so many people, the lover of trap-doors! However in that moment fate had proved to him that he was just as weak and foolhardy as every other pathetic soul that littered the world. It was not soon after that he tried suicide attempt, but only resulted in his failure and delving deeper into his sadness and grief. Ayesha had been Erik's only comfort and compassion. For many hours he would imagine that it instead of the tan feline, Ayesha would be the loving face of Christine. The cat's amber eyes would morph into the azure depths that were paler than the sky. Even more, Erik could feel his sanity slipping more to the brink of loss.

As the months went by, Erik thought of little else save for the cruel tortures of the world and insane gift it was to have a normal face in society. Bit by bit, his despair turned to hatred and Erik turned to his organ for release. He wrote and composed non-stop almost to the point of obsessive compulsion. Some of his songs were wrote in Christine's name and love, many more were requiems for Erik's own death which he had once sought to produce. Again he cursed and declared his love for Christine. It was in her kiss that had given him the briefest hint of hope that she would one day return to him. At the same time, it was her kiss that tore out his soul knowing that he could never experience their treasure again. But it was all worth it, Erik would always say. It had been his first kiss by a woman who had never once flinched in disgust at the sight of his visage. Even his mother could never find it in her soul to kiss her son.

After many months Erik had become submersed in his anger. The only being he found any console in was Ayesha. Nadir had vanished shortly after Christine and the Vicomte, believing him dead. Dark and kind silence bounced off the walls of his cavern lair. Never before had he felt more alone, abandoned and angry. For hours at a time he would pound his ivory organ keys in blind rage, frightening away even Ayesha, who would cower in the shadows. It went on that way for nearly a year until one day instead of the shrill screams of outrage and despair, Erik heard whispering above his lair. Curios as to what fools would be daft enough to enter _the Opera Populaire_, Erik ventured out into cold unfeeling day for the first time in nearly 18 months. It was eerily strange how much the same the world seemed. Hiding again, under the dark veil of his cloak and mask, Erik soon found out that his Opera had again been purchased by another pair of bumbling idiots.

It had been by mere accident that the spoiled little brat of the new manager had stumbled upon Ayesha. Erik had been ransacking the old dormitories of any evidence of his existence when he heard the stupid child cooing his cat. Consumed almost entirely, he had done everything to make sure the dumfounded progeny kept her tongue wisely immobile about his presence. The very last thing he needed was to deal with another angry mob tearing at his home like lunatics. And then _she_ showed her angelic visage again. Never in his wildest dreams did Erik dare to even venture a mere suggestion that Christine would ever be caught dead or alive in the _Opera Populaire_ again.

His heart skipped three beats at the sight of Christine. She was his Angel of Music and indeed, the Angel of his life. Her voice fluttered with the wings of God's right hand angels. Erik felt his soul being torn apart again at the sound of her voice; his heart yearned for the love that she had forsaken him and given that stupid little rich boy, the Vicomte de Chagny. He knew it was against his better judgment to toy with her the way he did, but Erik could not resist. 2 years of sorrow, depravation and love boiled through his veins. The rose he left her lovely hands to caress fondly was left just for her. He half expected Christine to shriek in fright at the bud's sight but instead his Angel had stroked it fondly and spoke his name with a betraying tear down her face. He had not clearly heard what she spoke silently into the flower and rejoiced in his silent hovel that Christine had not tore at the flower out of hate and fear.

At the same time when Erik had caught sight of Christine he knew automatically that her presence and aurora had changed. In the old days, Christine would bounce around happily singing the tune of her Angel of Music, phrasing his name and magnificent notes. Her skin glowed and radiated happiness and love. The pale cerulean depths of her eyes knew no bound as they would glance up excitedly at the sound of his, Erik's, voice. When he had seen her, Christine no longer was the vibrant and jubilant youth she once was, but instead held herself like a silenced woman of society. Bitter anger and hatred rose in Erik's throat. It was that Vicomte whelp who had done this to her. He had taken away her love for life and musical. Erik would have eaten Ayesha alive if her voiced had graced a single note on the staff in the two years of her marriage. Christine's voice no longer had the flare of life and passion that was needed by a Prima Donna--the flare she had once possessed before the days of that damned Vicomte boy who flattered her with only petty words and broken promises.

Once again, Erik could feel his heart pounding in his throat. She would be back that evening and sitting in his old box. With a smile, not a smirk or coy in nature, Erik went to his organ and began playing lead solo soprano line he had composed just for Christine for act 3 of Don _Juan Triumphant_ before it had been swallowed whole by flames.

XIX

It was dusk and the sun had just begun to kiss the horizon lines of the mountains to the west. The sky was a beautiful kamikaze of reds, oranges, golds, yellows, and even dark violet. Christine had always loved twilight most. It was a time when day and night fought their battle ending in a draw each and every time with their respective colors blending perfectly within; it was chaos and harmony all in the same instant. Gazing excitedly at the clock on the wall, Christine let a smile of happiness grace her perfectly rounded face. Raoul was in the process of dressing for the opera. Christine already was dressed and ready to head out on their venture. She chose to wear a satin plum-colored dress. It was low-cut, exposing the tops of her breasts but not too much to be lewd or indecent. Her corset accentuated nicely the flair of her hips as well as the dark purple hoop skirt she wore. White lace trimmings graced the sleeves, adding a delicate womanly touch. Her mahogany curly locks were secured in a lose knot on the back of her cranium. Green silk ribbon wove in and out between her hair, adding a very wood-like effect. Because of the low neck line, Christine decided on a tear drop shaped diamond on a golden chain so fine it blended in with her skin. Tiny dangling diamonds fell from her earlobes. The dress had no sleeves but instead two thin strips of satin that clung to the slope of her shoulders. Black silk gloves that traveled up to her elbows were on each arm. "You look beautiful," Raoul said, emerging from the small dressing room their hotel room provided.

Raoul was dressed in the traditional black silk suit and jacket. He wore a pale gold waistcoat beneath that was accented with intricate stitching. Smooth, slick and shiny boots were presented on both of his feet and a grin was plastered on his face. Raoul's blonde locks were slicked back and tied off at his neckline. "Shall we go?" he added suggestively, but pointing towards the door.

Christine pretended to grin, but said nothing at her husband's…boldness. She could not deny that sex had been a big fact in their marriage, yet had she had failed to produce an heir. But after so many failed attempts, more tries than Christine and the decency to count, she had quickly tired of their nightly romps and plays. The pressure for her to produce a child had become ever more bearing, putting her in a more reclusive mood and taking away all the joys of their physical love making. It often felt like she was only having sex with him to fulfill his needs and her obligations of a child. She no longer felt the initial joy she had once held. It seemed like more of an obligation than pleasure.

Taking her husband's hand in her own Christine smiled and quickly pulled him to the door. "Let us be on our way," she said.

MXIXVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

I tried to get this out as soon as I could. No doubt I will feel the consequences tomorrow due to how late I stayed up trying to finish this chapter. But it was well worth it. I love writing in Erik's POV. He is just so amazing and deep. I hope I didn't make Raoul too much of an ass and kept him, as well as the others, in character.

Since no one responded to my question: whether or not to include Nadir, I have decided to add him in. but our good friend will not play a big roll as he dose in so many other stories. Again, no offence to Nadir fans. I actually like Nadir a lot, but there really isn't much of a roll he can play in the direction this is heading in. Oh, and his eyes will be jade as they are in Leroux's original work.

More reviews makes more chapters come out quicker. If you have any suggestions or questions please let me know. Reviews, ideas and even constructive critisim are loved by me. All flames will be read, laughed at, and deleted. If they are funny enough, I will post them for everyone to make fun of. You have been warned.

I remain your obedient author,

E.M.


	4. Recollections and Returns

Horary for chapter 4! I normally don't update this quick, but seeing as how I will be leaving in just two weeks I want to get as much out as possible.

FIRST….THINGS….FIRST….

THANK YOU SO SO SO SO SO SO MUCH FOR ALL YOUR WONDERFUL REVIEWS! They really mean so much to me and keep me motivated to write. I just want to thank each and every person a thousand times over for reviewing and for your suggestions, comments and critisim. I know a lot better where I need to improve and it is all because of you guys. Thank you all so much. Just imagine how wonderful it felt coming home from a royally crappy day at school with 8 shining, brand spanking new reviews.

I feel I am obligated to say this…This story is based on the original novel of Gaston Leroux. Only elements of the musical, movie(s) and Kay are being used. This has nothing to do with Kay's novel, "Phantom", nor will it share Erik's past as seen through the eyes of Kay or her version of Erik and Christine's relationship. I personally found that she completely tore and ripped apart Erik's love for Christine and degraded his love to an almost incestuous degree. The main reason I am using her version of the Persian, Nadir, is because he is in general the most accepted interpretation of the original character of Leroux. Everything else IS based on what Gaston Leroux wrote. The ONLY SINGLE element that I am changing is Christine's appearance: in the book she has blonde hair and blue eyes, in my version she has brown hair and blue eyes. I always just imagined her as a brunette instead of a blonde, even when I read the book. Other than that, everything is based purely on Leroux. I only add Kay to the disclaimer because I love her interpretation of Erik's cat so I am keeping her name the same.

With that said…

**Disclaimer:** Don't own anything…blahhblahh…don't sue…blahhblahh…you won't get jack squat….blahhblahh.

IT'S THE RETURN OF NADIR! Yay, three cheers for our favorite Nadir Khan.

Enjoy…

MXIXVIXIXM

Crowds of people from all rangers in life, rich and poor, exquisite and plain, complex and simple began to pour around the _Opera Populaire_. It was just half an hour before the curtain rose on their first performance since the great tragedy. Above in the sky, even the stars seemed to shine upon the grand re-opening of the _Populaire. _Christine had insisted that she and Raoul leave early in order to assure their seat in quick order. She was extremely happy she did; every inch of the gargantuan building was swamped full of people. Christine could hardly remember a time when she was more excited and anxious since her marriage to Raoul. Living in the high French Aristocratic society was extremely dull and boring, having the same idle gossip day after day or arguing about politics. It had been a good two years since she last felt any true excitement at all and Christine was not about to loose her chance.

In the flocks of people, Christine quickly recognized many of them from her previous life before Raoul. Madam Giry, sporting her usual inky black hair in a bonnet and wearing a dark dress, was seen up front talking to Monsieurs deCour and Chapman. She only caught a bit of their conversation which revealed that Meg had become the Prima Ballerina at the _Populaire_ since its re-opening. Christine made a mental note to keep a dagger sharp eye for her best friend. Firmin and Andre were present as well, dressed in their usual suits of black silk with smug expressions that only money would bring. Even La Carlotta was present, seated opposite of Christine and Raoul in Box 2; her heavy Spanish accent was especially predominant in the flocks of French speaking folk. From their seat in Box 5, Christine could see Linette and her mother, a beautiful woman with thick blonde locks and vivid blue eyes, from across the room. Linette looked positively ecstatic and radiant. Mrs. DeCour wore an expression of sour grapes and looked positively appalled that her daughter took any pleasure in the theatre. Christine figured it was the usual fourteen year old inquisition and fascination with all the glittery costumes and overbearing amounts of make-up since the young child was clearly un-musically inclined.

Raoul let his hands caress his wife's shoulders lovingly. With an apology Raoul excused himself and left without a word leaving a puzzle Christine in his wake.

With the eye of a hawk, Raoul hastily gathered which two gentlemen it had been who purchased the opera house. Percival DeCour and Audrey Chapman were deeply in conversation when they heard the "Ah-hem" from the Vicomte de Chagny behind. Both men exchanged respectable greetings. "I really must thank you gentlemen for allowing my wife and me such fine seats," Raoul said kindly.

"The honor is all ours Messier de Chagny. You can right imagine the shock we received when your lovely wife came to our doorstep asking for tickets," Percival said.

"Even more was the honor that the Countess de Chagny was previously La Daae. Our shock was all the more as was the privilege," Audrey finished, taking a sip of burgundy wine that he held in his grasp. His pale checks were clearly tinted red from a drunken stupor. Raoul said nothing, but resisted the urge to laugh out loud. Percival also held a wine glass in his hand, but Raoul reconciled the light wine he was drinking, unlike his associate. Audrey blinked stupidly and asked under his breath, "is it really true all the rumors of an Opera Ghost?" Raoul had to strain his ears to hear the man's words.

"Audrey! I should think that you, of all people, would surely not believe all that senseless—as the English would say—codswallop," Percival snapped at his friend. Raoul mind jumped at the mention of that vile creature. If the new owners had not heard of him that surely the demon of the opera would be dead. Raoul knew that it was not in the nature of a faceless, de-formed madman to allow another man to hold complete control over his precious Opera House. A wave of relief washed over him; Christine would be safe as long as that bitter abomination of the human race was dead, as it seemed he indeed was.

"I should say not my good gentlemen," Raoul lied, keeping in good appeal to Percival DeCour. After all, it would be miraculously idiot sounding if he confirmed the words of a drunk. "I was present at the time of the so-called '_Phantom's ' _reign. It turned out to be nothing but a crazed madman who was tried and convicted of his hideous deeds," he finished with a smug expression. He could never say the truth in front of his Christine about that thing, but in the presence of these two men, one of them drunk none-the-less, Raoul had a rare freedom he ever found in Christine. _She would hear nothing foul against Erik_, Raoul thought bitterly. It pained Raoul to think that even now, a ghost of a dead fool could sway and pollute her mind so. Raoul could feel his blood beginning to boil and calmed himself down by reminding himself that Christine had chosen him. She had chosen the best man; he could provide for her, love her and be there for her…something that a deranged crazy fool could ever begin to fathom. Taking note of the time, Raoul took his leave of the two men before him and returned to Christine.

"Are you alright?" Christine asked in earnest, taking note of his facial expression.

"Do not worry yourself," Raoul responded, seating himself next to his wife. Christine had a sneaking suspicion of what Raoul had done, but she kept it to herself. There was no fruit to be produced from inquiring on foolish impulse. A few minutes of silence later, the lights dimmed slightly signifying the beginning of the opera.

Christine watched eagerly as her favorite childhood opera was being preformed out yet again. It was very clear the short amount of time it had taken to put together the show as well as the lack of experienced talent. The dancers were all very young, some not older than thirteen, and clearly very inexperienced. When Christine trained as a ballet dancer, Madame Giry would allow no girl on stage that had trained for less than two years; even then your chances of being bathed in the bright sunlight of a Prima Ballerina were non existent. Christine bit back her strong urge to laugh as two of the younger dancers stumbled around clumsily; clearly it was their first performance on stage. Many of the singers were no better. The leading Soprano was all too reminiscent of La Carlotta, strutting about the stage while screeching notes high up into the atmosphere. Supporting the dismally failing Soprano was a small flock of alto and tinner Chorus. Together they sang horribly out of tune with the alto going flat and tinner going sharp, and the baritone seemingly non-existent. Christine's mind immediately went to Erik. He would have immediately caused some sort of an uproar the instant the first strained screech was uttered. She could not help but smile at the many instances Erik had delayed rehearsal due to Carlotta's egotistic nature, causing everyone to become red in the face and frustrated. But at the time she had not known it was Erik, and blamed it on the figurative "Opera Ghost". A frown glazed her face at the thought of her first encounter with Erik.

_/Flashback/_

_Christine groaned in agony at the stiffness of her legs. Rehearsal had lasted a grueling nine hours in which she had been forced to dance much more strenuously than she had in all her previous years at the _Populaire. _The owners, MM. Debienne and Poligny had decided it was due time for another production of the infamously famous '_Hannibal'. _Naturally Carlotta had been given the lead roll, only adding to her insatiable lust for the limelight. It was Christine's first time one the stage as a ballet dancer. At seventeen years of age she would finally be getting her debut on the stage. Naturally her best friend in the world, Meg Giry, would be with her. Meg had seen the stage only once previous and her talent was far superior to Christine. Often times at night, christen would yearn to have her best friend's God-given talent on her tip toes dancing gracefully around like a swan; unlike herself, Christine saw herself waddling around like a goose in comparison to Meg. But at the current moment, Christine had not the will to even waddle around; her legs ached from practice. _

_As per norm, the rehearsal had started like any other—everyone was mildly jubilant at the approach of yet another opera to perform and the young Chorus and Ballet girls were giddy with excitement. Christine restrained herself as much as possible so as not to seem so juvenile but found it more difficult to do than vow. But the atmosphere soon clouded over as La Carlotta strutted about singing her heart out shrilly. Meg and Christine crumpled their noses in disgust as Carlotta sang from low baritone to top soprano horribly out of key. However not even the maestro had the nerve to correct the fierce Spanish diva, or else face another of her temper tantrums. Ignoring Carlotta's shrills; Christine danced to her best ability given her nervousness. She was thankful most of her routine was on the opposite side of the stage as Carlotta and near Meg. Given her young years and relatively short experience, she preformed to her best ability which was good enough to earn pleasing approval from both Madam Giry and MM. Debienne and Poligny. By the third hour, Christine cursed her apparent lack of stage experience and physical endurance. Madam Giry had not demanded much physically from her girls, as most of them were clearly not ready for stage performance. The muscles in her legs that Christine had spent many years working on failed her dismally after just three hours of constant practice. At the fourth hour, Christine wanted to cry to the heavens for mercy but her pride kept her tongue still. Her calves and thighs burned in exhaustion by half pass the fourth hour. Even then she did not ask for a break. Just gazing at the older and more refined girls sent a surge of fresh determination to her mind. Daring a glance every so often at Meg, even Christine could tell that even her best friend was feeling the affects of the constant moving. Christine breathed a sigh of relief and thanks when the maestro called for a break._

_One of the plumper maids brought forth large drinks of water for everyone on stage. Christine took her water eagerly and drank every drop within minutes. Not caring for the hard surface, Christine took a much needed seat of rest. Soon she was joined by Meg, whose checks were pink from fatigue. Sensing her friend's apprehension Meg said, "Do not fret Christine. You are doing well," she comforted. Christine smiled sincerely at her friend. _

"_Thank you Meg," Christine responded. "You dance wonderfully Meg". _

"_Flattery is not necessary in our friendship," Meg said. "You know as well as I do that I am an amateur in the stage life of a Prima. Surely my clumsy bumbling is quite apparent," she finished taking a swig from her water. _

"_Modesty had never been your strong suite Meg. Your skill far surpasses mine as it doses the other ballerinas. You dance like a swan out there," Christine comforted. _

"_No my dear friend, I must say modesty has never been her strong suite," Meg pointed towards Carlotta who was busy telling off some of the singers that their voices were too loud and covered up her diva voice. Christine laughed heartily with Meg. It was too true, compared to Carlotta both were absolute masters of modesty. _

_With just the mere nod of the conductor, everyone on stage found themselves back in form. The temporary break allowed Christine the much needed rest she desired. No longer did her legs ache so profusely, but the familiar dull pain did not leave them. Yet she did not allow a little ache dictate her yearning for the stage. Amidst all the twirling of skirts and swishing of legs Christine wondered if her father was looking down upon her from heaven. What would he say if he could see his daughter now, dancing among the dozens of ballerinas instead of singing as he had originally hoped. She knew that her father would always love and support her, no matter her choice irrelevant if it was singing or dancing, but Christine knew that her father had once dreamed of seeing his only daughter was a Prima Donna of the opera world. However ever since his death, Christine had lost her voice and inspiration to go forward. Her father had been her everything, teaching her music with all his heart and soul, playing beautifully to her on his enchanted violin, wooing and cooing his daughter into the world lf music. Papa Daae had been her everything, her muse for inspiration and reason for singing. She would sing only for her father who would look at his daughter in gleaming admiration and love, and her mother whose soul was with the chorus of angels in Heaven. _

_As practice for the first two acts in _Hannibal _proceeded, Christine quickly found herself away from her comfort zone. In the middle of the stage Carlotta strutted to and fro singing like a cock at the first sight of the sun and Christine found her steps circling around the Spanish diva while Meg danced with one of the young ballet men in false love and desire. Christine had always heard from the Chorus girls and senior ballet dancers that it was pure torture to be dancing anywhere in the vicinity of La Carlotta and her childishly short ego fuse. Shortly into her spherical movements, Carlotta yelled at the Maestro to halt. With a finely polished nail she shrieked at Christine, "You…" in her thick accent which blended together poorly with French… "You are too tall! The crowd would have to half giraffe if they are to see over your enlarged head," Carlotta said with the expression of a viper. Christine fell short of breath, what was she to say? In truth, Carlotta was much taller than her mere 5'5" and petite frame. Why was she saying this? Was it to intimidate her? _Well if it is, she is doing a fine job of it, _Christine thought bitterly as blood rushed to her checks. "What is it? Is your pretty little face too impudent to say anything," Carlotta accused arrogantly. _

"_Please Mademoiselle, Christine has no control over what path her routine takes her," Meg said out from the corners pleading with the older woman. _

"_Silence!" Carlotta said, for none dared to take a firm foot against her tantrums. "Since stupidity has seemed to bombard this little girl's tongue, may I make the suggestion to take her out?" Carlotta added in the direction of the conductor who had more of a say in the theatrical matters than most others especially when dealing with the diva. _

_With his bushy eyebrows and tuffs of grey hair sticking out in all directions the maestro said nothing. Christine could do nothing but stare at the ground in mortification. What had she done to deserve Carlotta's malice? Carlotta smirked in triumph, knowing she had made her selfishly juvenile point—she wanted all of the audience's attention to be upon her and none made a point of argument. Christine was about to turn her heel and leave when a stern voice came from behind her. "This performance has been demonstrated many times in the past in the exact same dance routine. I see no reason to change it, unless the great La Carlotta is suggesting that the original composer was half mad and half drunk while he wrote it. For surely who would ever want even the merest instant of limelight taken away from the leading soprano. But of course, that could easily be remedied," said the stern notes of Madame Giry who had emerged from behind the stage curtain. Even with her elder age and inky black hair strewn in her usual bonnet, Madame Giry held the most authority in the _Opera Populaire_. None would dare to challenge her, not even La Carlotta. Her aged black eyes flashed dangerously at everyone on stage, daring them to rebel against her words. "If Mademoiselle Carlotta wishes to retain her role and title than I suggest she keep her mouth closed about the matter," the elderly woman spoke. _

"_Y-yes of course Madame," Carlotta said, not daring to spark Madame Giry's rage. Even among the lead sopranos the rumor that Madame Giry conspired with the infamous 'Opera Ghost' was clearly evident. No one would invoke Madame Giry's foul disposition out of fear that she would sick the Opera Ghost on the poor fool soul. The woman nodded and retreated back to her normal shadows that matched the dark black of her hair. _

_Christine swelled with thanks and newly found compassion for Madame Giry who had seemed to disappear in the shadows as soon as she came. Carlotta snuck a disdainful glance at the young ballet dancer but wisely said nothing. For the remainder of the day, stopping only for lunch, rehearsal continued with little interruption. By the time the sun had fallen beneath the horizon, the maestro was finally pleased with the progress the cast had made on their parts. He assigned everyone to work diligently at their roles and bid everyone goodnight. _

_Christine gladly made her way up to her dormitory. Slowly she trudged on her sore feet up the stairs to her room which she shared with Meg and another dancer called Fleur, each step took as much if not more energy than the last. A wave of relief washed over Christine as she reached the familiar dormitory that smelled of perfumed jasmine, for it was Fleur's favorite scent. Fleur was 19 and one of leading Prima Ballerinas; she always insisted on smelling fresh and lively. Gladly Christine striped herself, from behind her dressing screen, of her costume and let a simple cotton nightgown caress her young curves. Christine always thought of herself as small and slightly skinny for her age. As she emerged from behind the screen, she found that both Meg and Fleur were deeply immersed in blissful slumber. Christine smiled; she so wanted to join them and succumb to the cries of her bed sheets but she had something else she needed to do first. Slipping her feet into a pair of slippers, Christine snuck out from her room. Aching feet could always wait an additional five minutes for rest, paying respect to her father always held her first priority. Aching feet would have to just wait. _

_Slowly she crept though the deserted corridors cautiously so as to avoid any unwanted followers. She knew the back ballet dormitories like the palm of her hand and even though the lighting was poor, Christine held a perfect sense of direction. She soon found herself in a dark room with a large mahogany door and brass handle. In the center of the room was a small candleholder with three limbs extending skyward. Upon the middle limb was a slightly burnt candle with the darkened wick that stood out vividly against the white wax. Christine drew forth a match from the pocket of her nightgown and struck it against the wooden floor. A light sprang forth from the tip and she spread it to the candle wick. Soon her face was bathed in faint candlelight as she blew out the match. Putting together her palms, Christine prayed for her father's spirit, love and guidance._

"_Papa," she began slowly, "I pray you are pleased for my fate. I have been chosen to perform in the new production of _Hannibal. _I cannot be more pleased. I can only pray that you are," Christine paused thinking of what to say next. "Even in death you guide me to do my best. Papa, I hope you can forgive my choice in the ballet and not in the Chorus as you wished. My voice has grown cold in your absence, you were—no you are everything to me. Without you I cannot muster the will to sing as I once did. It was only you who inspired it in me. I pray you forgive my foolishness; I am just a silly daughter of a great musician. I know you promised that I would be protected by an Angel of Music, but my eyes search out blindly. Please forgive me Papa. I am always waiting for the Angel of Music, please Papa, please send me something that you are well and not disappointed in your daughter who pays love and tribute to you every eve," Christine pleaded to her father. Papa Daae had meant more to her than everything on Earth. Madame Giry may have raised her as a daughter in the arts of dance, but it had been him who instilled the love of music and gift. Christine wept openly for her lost father. First her mother was called to leave the Earthly realm and then her father. She would often wonder what cruel joke was being played when the old perished before their daughter had reached the age of 10. Why did he have to leave? Why? Out of grief and love, Christine began singing her favorite song from _Lazarus Resurrected._ She knew her voice was not as it once was, but didn't care. Papa Daae had cherished even the screaming wails of Christine as a baby, exclaiming that she would one day grow up to be the greatest diva who ever lived. _

_After several minutes of tears and tunes, Christine decided it was in her better judgment to leave. There was no doubt that practice tomorrow would be just as strenuous and her father would not wish to her to over exert herself, and pass out of fatigue during the middle of rehearsal. Although there was no doubt that Carlotta would take great glee in it. "Child, be at ease. Do not let your face be marred by this lingering sorrow," a voice spoke from the shadows. Christine jumped in fright. Had some lecherous boy followed her becoming a victim of his own lewd mind? She was glad of the dark for it concealed the pink that flushed her face. _

"_Who are you?" Christine spoke. She looked around her franticly looking something, anything that would suggest another presence. She saw nothing. "Where are you?" _

_Ignoring her question the voice said, "Your father surely would take no pleasure in the grief you feel. No parent would". The voice was deep and high in frequency all at the same time. It seemed to possess the knowledge of a thousand philosophers over and yet was innocent in nature. Christine could tell it was male, but to anything else she knew not. He sounded young and old all at the same time. She did not want to know. Ignoring the candle; Christine made a mad dash to the door only to find it locked. She yanked at the brass handle madly but it stubbornly refused to budge. She became scared in that moment. There she was, a small seventeen year old girl locked in a dark room in the middle of the night with an unknown man speaking to her in the shadows. "Do not fear me child. I will not hurt you," the voice soothed her. Christine couldn't help but being moved by the voice, but her fright did not diminish. She sunk into the corner, drawing her knees to her chin._

"_Who are you?" Christine spoke. _

"_I see your questions cannot be easily swayed…I am a prisoner like yourself. I remain trapped in this cold world of unfeeling light paying homage to the dead ghost of memory," the voice answered. Christine believed him; he sounded sincere enough and a sadness lingered in the air that was not her own. _

"_I see," Christine responded. It was the only thing she could think to say and felt even more embarrassment as she heard it bouncing off the walls in an echo. _

"_Rest child, I will protect you. There is not much I can do to aid your situation save for making sure you rest soundly," the voice continued. A brief pause took both occupants but the voice soon broke it again, "Your voice is to be envied young child. I cannot see why one such as you would choose to be in the ballet when such a gift has been bestowed upon them". _

"_My voice is not as great as you presume. It was my father who bestowed such inspiration for me to sing. It died when he did. As my father lied on his deathbed, he promised to send an Angel of Music to protect me. But in the long years since, no such Angel has shown up and my voice has not been rekindled. My voice remains, as it always has been, my father's. I see no reason to sing with his death. It was he who gave me my gift," Christine said sadly. _

"_And what would you say if I were to deem myself your Angel?" the voice questioned. _

"_I would scoff at the fool who presumed to be the Angel of Music," Christine answered earnestly. "Everyone knows that the Angel of Music has a voice so heavenly that none could resist it. He or She would have a voice so grand that it would silence the sirens and make Orpheus bow his head in utter shame and humiliation," Christine finished. After all of her years alone, why would the Angel of Music show up so suddenly? No, she absolutely refused to believe that this voice was her Angel. _

_At that, the voice chuckled softly and began to strum a tune with his voice. He began where Christine had left off in her song of lament for her father from _LazarusResurrected_. Her eyes widened at the beauty the voice instilled in her. It was beautiful and sad at the same time. His voice was like that of no other. It seemed so heavenly that none on Earth could ever match. Lo and Behold! The Sirens kept silent and Orpheus would have not only bowed his head in shame, but died of humiliation. Christine said nothing and just listened to his heavenly voice, both happy and sad in the same moment. _

_Finally when the voice came to a halt Christine could say nothing. Was this truly her father's Angel of Music? Was he here to guide her? To protect her? "Sleep child, I will protect you," the voice said softly. Christine could not find her voice to answer and just simply nodded her head. After a few moments of hesitation the voice said in her lack of replies, "Sleep," a bit more firmly. _

"_Thank you," Christine said as she sat down and drew her knees to her face. Her eye lids were heavy and she fell into deep sleep within seconds. Unbeknownst to her, when her Angel of Music was positive she was securely asleep he leaped down from the shadows of the upper rafts. He was cloaked in midnight ebony and his hazel eyes were the only visible features. His figure was tall and thin, yet with a powerful and domineering presence. With a gloved hand, the Opera Ghost stroked her pale winter cream colored face and sang a sadly sweet song meant only to grace her earlobes. _

_The following morning Christine woke to Madame Giry shaking her shoulder._

_/End Flashback/ _

Christine was brought back to reality as a particularly strained and sharp note was emitted by the leading soprano. She couldn't help but crinkle her nose at the sound. Gazing at Raoul she knew instantly that he too, even in his limited knowledge if music, was having his ears testing in a daring endurance of high pitch tendencies. A sudden urge to relieve herself came over Christine and she quietly excused herself from her husband.

The long corridors were empty and dark due to the lack of proper lighting; its main pivotal point of focus was on the main stage. Christine was thankful for her knowledge of the _Opera Populaire_ or else she would more lost than an old man without his cane in the middle of Paris. Her shoes made a soft tip-tapping against the finely polished floor. From behind her a voice said, "Christine". Christine whirled around only to come face to face with the dark and angry face of Nadir. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the Persian. She had believed him to be long gone away from Paris and even France in general. He was dressed in his usual long robes of black and his jade eyes flashed dangerously. Anger seared across his features at the sight of Christine. "Do you enjoy knowing the knowledge of how much you torture in so, or are just so ignorant and foolish enough that you are completely ignorant," Nadir demanded furiously. "Do tell me, did you take his box knowing he would be here?"

Christine said nothing. What was she supposed to say? No doubt whatever words she chose they would land her in trouble not only with Nadir and Erik, but also Raoul and, most likely, the authorities. There was no doubt that if she spoke the truth that Nadir would not believe her words. Christine avoided Nadir's flashing eyes and began surveying the shadows. Surely of Nadir was there, Erik was watching. She saw nothing but knew that did not positively confirm Erik's absence. He was a master at concealing himself even in there merest hint of a shadow as Christine well knew.

Because of her lack of words, Nadir became even more enraged. How could she not know? How could see bring the Vicomte to Box 5 along with her presence. She knew that it would drive Erik to the cliff of insanity, not that he hadn't always been there before, but Christine would push him over the brink. Surely she could be that much of a fool. Or had the two years of innocence with the Vicomte blinded her mind? Nadir knew not, and cared little. All he knew was that Erik would surely do something wildly out of control and it was all due to this woman her blind stupidity. Knowing that they were alone, he had, with some degree of trouble, talked Erik out of lashing his Punjab at Raoul, Nadir shook Christine violently. The young woman shrieked in surprise, but he knew that if he was to keep all hell from breaking lose, it had to start with Christine. "Speak you stupid girl, you know as well as I do what the consequences are—why in the name of Allah did you return? Was it to drive Erik to kill himself, or worse other people?" Nadir demanded.

Still Christine said nothing. What would Nadir say if he knew about the rose? What would he say if she admitted that her feelings for Erik had not diminished? _No,_ she thought to herself firmly, _it will only cause more pain…on everyone's behalf. _ But she had to answer; Christine knew that Nadir would not let her lose until he got a satisfied answer. "I…" she began, not really knowing what to say. She couldn't say her heart, she just couldn't.

"Christine!" came the voice, as well as silhouette of Raoul.

Nadir turned to the direction of Raoul and released Christine. No good would come if he was caught by the Vicomte. "Leave now! Leave before tragedy will strike us all—you in particular. For your own sake, as well as that of your husband's, leave," Nadir warned. He turned his heel and began walking in the opposite direction. Quickly shadow enveloped his body as he walked further and further away.

As Christine turned to face her husband with her normal smile, she could not help but let her thoughts return to Erik. It would be best if she left and left quickly. She had been stupid to return. Taking Raoul's hand the couple returned to Box 5 for the remainder of the show. Christine could not force herself to meet Raoul's loving eyes. She would leave that morning and everything would be over with and done. For the sake of Nadir, Raoul and everyone else, she would leave at first light. But most of all, Christine knew it was for the sake of Erik. She hated to admit it, but her feelings for him would never vanish into thin air. Her piece of her heart and the entirety of her voice would always belong to him. If she stayed, it would drive both of them into madness.

MXIXVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

Not the best chapter I admit. I just really wanted to get this out as soon as possible. I will most likely edit it and re-post it at a later date when this story is finished in its entirety. It was a pain to figure out how to end it. I am sorry I didn't get this out quicker—I had a really bad allergy attack last night and have not been in the best of moods. It happens like that when your lungs close off. Damn allergies.

Just note that Nadir will not play a major part in this. I really like him in general and wanted to include him, but there really was no way he can fit in the direction I am taking this.

Please review! It makes chapters come out much quicker.

62 days, 9 hours and 9 minutes till Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince from the time I am writing this.


	5. Abduction!

Let's hear it for chapter 5!

This will most likely be the last chapter I write before I head off with my Dad for three weeks and then off to New York City for 1 ½ weeks. Hopefully after that I will get around two to three more chapters done before I have to go back to band camp. After that who knows. School starts the day after band camp gets out and mainly depends on my teachers and my homework schedule. But rest assured this story will be updated until I finish it.

**Disclaimer: **I own nuttin. All is property to other people beside myself. Accuse me of stealing it and I will curse your mind with images of Andre and Firmin in a thong. Images that will never leave your mind until the day you die.

Your reviews really do mean so much to me. They really do. Keep it up.

**Warnings: **Violence in this chapter as well as language and sexual content. If that offends you people don't read. Don't flame me about it because I've warned you. I can't say the number of times that morons do that to me, flame me about the content I write when I CLEARLY write warnings. The story ratings should be enough in themselves. But no, people insist on being stupid. Anywhoo, I'll get off my soapbox and let you read.

I hope this chapter is better than the last one which royally sucked.

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM

Outside the velvet sky was speckled with bright celestial stars. Even above the bright city lights of Paris they still twinkled vibrantly above all the Earthly hubbub. Inside of her hotel room, Christine was tossing and turning in her bed. Severe insomnia ailed her and, for the likes of her, could not return to the blissful dreams of sleep that took her away from harsh reality. To her right, Raoul slept soundly—his chest heaved up and down in a steady repetitive motion. Christine envied her husband's easy sleep as she again churned from side to side. The feeling of guilt racked and ruined Christine's mind, not leaving any merciful room for the merest hint of sleep. Every time her eyelids closed the image of Erik popped into her mind and when they opened again she would see her husbands sleeping form next to her. Christine didn't know what to do. Nadir's words plagued her mind. Why had she really returned to the _Opera Populaire_? Was it really to torment Erik with the life that Christine knew he could never achieve? Was it out of pity? Or was it something more? Christine knew that she still harbored feelings for Erik; after all he was her teacher, mentor, her Angel of Music, her best friend (next to Meg Giry) and her love until Raoul had come into frame again. Did the yearning desire to return to Erik's underground lair lay so deeply molded into her soul that she did not even know it?

Christine's cerulean eyes surveyed the room. Maybe her eyelids would simply become so heavy with exhaustion that they would just drop shut and she wouldn't be able to open them even if Erik's face showed again. After several minutes this theory was quickly put to rest as increasing weight was put onto her eyes but they still refused to shut. Having enough of it, Christine sat up in bed and breathed a sigh of annoyance. She lifted the cotton sheets from her body and strode over to the sliding glass door that led to the small balcony. Knowing the air would be chilly, Christine grabbed the nearest cloak she could find and draped it across her shoulders. Carefully so as not to wake Raoul, she slid the glass door and stepped out into the cool night air. It was refreshing against her lack of sleep. Down below her she could see a middle-aged couple walking down the street arm in arm, smiling fondly down at each other. Christine wondered that if in twenty years she and Raoul would still be the loving couple they were, even if their love was based more from a friendship standpoint than that of a husband and wife. Or instead, would Raoul become the vicious money obsessive man like Firmin and Andre? Would she turn into some sour old woman like Voletta deCour, a woman who hates theatre with no energetic spirit to liven up life? The thought churned Christine's stomach. She would rather live a sort life filled with love, vibrancy, and music than walk the Earth a thousand lifetimes as a quiet underling to a man with no say and hatred towards anything jubilant. Sighing again Christine looked again at her sleeping husband in envy.

Looking through the glass door Christine nearly gasped at loud at what she saw looming above Raoul. A pair of golden orbs embedded in black shadow. _No! _Christine thought. _Even he wouldn't be that bold,_ she continued. But was she really so sure? After all, hadn't Erik nearly blown the Paris Opera House to the ground with hundreds of barrels of gunpowder? However to kill Raoul in front of her! Christine nearly collided head on with the glass as she rushed inside her room. However as soon as she crossed the threshold of the door, the hazel disappeared and became blackness all over again. "What?" Christine said aloud. Raoul stirred a bit, but just as soon fell back into the peaceful bliss of dreamland. She rapidly looked all around the dark room. No sign, nothing. Was she going mad? Christine would have sworn on the grave of her father that she saw Erik over the bed. In an instantaneous flash they were back again hovering above Raoul's head. _Wait a second,_ Christine mused. No person, whether or not they were known as a phantom could maneuver themselves that quickly. Again they flashed away leaving nothing but darkness. Christine turned towards the window and felt a wave of stupid vulnerability wash over her. The lights from the pub across the street were flashing in bright bursts of golden hazel. They were being reflected through the window.

Christine closed her eyes in relief that it had not been Erik. But as soon as she closed them his face, distorted in angelic purity, came again into her head. She opened them again and sank back against the cool glass. Did she miss Erik so much that his face would forever haunt her? She knew that in kissing him and then leaving with Raoul, she had done nothing more than rip out his heart piece by piece leaving Erik to collect the bit askew. In that moment of ecstasy, Christine had chosen Erik. She chose to live with him, to be his wife, to die with her Angel. She had done it all only to revoke it, leaving him in his dark hovel. She had been inhumanly cruel to him, just as had the rest of the world. No! Christine tried to console herself. She had given Erik a chance to live. If he had killed Raoul it would have been worse off for everyone. Her heart sank when a voice in her said _are you really any better? Was what you did, ripping his soul from his body and leaving him to catch it any better than what everyone else had done? _Christine knew the answer, but she did not have the boldness to claim it to be true. No, she had been worse. She had given Erik everything he ever wanted in the world, a life with someone he cared for (unlike the thousands of men who wanted fame, riches, stardom and a whole host of women groveling at their feet). She had done it all, only to take it away and give it to Raoul. _I am a cruel woman, _Christine thought to herself. _I am no better than those bastards in his past that persecuted and abused him so. _Erik was worth more than anyone in the universe. He had done so much more with his life, even being shunned by society, than what most people did in their lifetimes. It was cruel that his face had been chosen to cursed, marred and scarred.

Christine swallowed the bitter lump of sadness and regret in her throat. Crystalline tears lined her eyes and threatened to spill over. She closed her eyes to keep them from falling but in vain. A sharp pain was felt in the middle of her back and Christine rummaged though the long black mantle to see what it was. She gasped out loud as her finger was pricked. Her hands had clasped right around the middle of the rose's stem. A lone thorn pricked her finger in protest of being moved. Christine ignored the small trickle of blood and drew forth the flower. Some of its petals were wrinkled from the sudden pressure she had forced upon it. Another streak of moisture fell from her blue eyes. Of all the small trinkets she stuffed into her cloak why did it have to be Erik's rose? Why? Dear Lord WHY? Madame Giry had been correct in giving Erik his renowned nickname, The Phantom of the Opera. He was indeed like a phantom; his presence never left you no matter how many times you prayed for it to vanish. It was in that moment that Christine knew that she would find no rest at all that night nor would she ever sleep again if her feelings for Erik still existed. Leaving the following morning would not help either. Slamming her fist against the wall, Christine rose from her spot. There would be no more rest for her unless she and Erik would find some sort of resolve. Apparently leaving a matter to sort itself out for over two years did not work.

Christine threw off her thin cotton petticoat and went to gather some proper clothing. Because of the eve weather, she chose one of her heavier skirts and a plain white blouse. Christine was tempted to say to hell with it and leave off her corset, but what if someone stopped her. It would not make a very good impression if she, the Vicomtess de Chagny, was seen wandering the streets of Paris at night without her corset on. The scandal would be all over every single news paper within a thousand miles. On the other hand, she left her mahogany tresses down. Grabbing her jet cloak again, and pocketing a room key Christine left in search of resolve.

VIV

Apparently even at night the Parisian streets were bustling with life. All around lights flickered on and off excitedly and people walked amuck in talkative groups. As a child her father refused to let his daughter out once the sent had set and Madame Giry, with a much stronger iron reign than her father, would sooner be caught walking in broad daylight nude than let out one of her ballet girls after dark. Christine maintained a quick pace to the _Opera Populaire_. The streets were no where near as crowded as they were during the day and made for much easier movement.

Soon the Opera house came into view. Even at night it was just as grand and splendid in the artistic baroque style it conveyed. Christine slowed her pace to a dull walk so as not to be discovered. Just because she was once the infamous La Daae, it did not mean that she had a free 24 hour all access pass to the _Populaire_. Just as she reached the first of the marble steps that led to the front doors a voice crackled from behind, "Well well, what do we have here?"

The last thing Christine remembered was a hand striking the back of her neck.

VIV **A/N: **Trust me; the temptation was great just to leave it at that. But no, I am not that mean.

Christine awoke with her head pounding painfully against her skull. She groaned in pain. She felt like she had collided headfirst into a brick wall while running full speed. Her eyes were heavy but she forced them to open. A strange humid sensation enveloped Christine but her vision was blurred so she could not see what her current environment was. It took a few moments for her vision to adjust to the ill lighting. "Ohh my head," Christine said quietly; she knew it would have been wiser not to say anything at all but the painful throbbing made it impossible. She made an attempt to move but was abruptly stopped.

"It would be in your best interest not to do that," the same crackling voice said in very poor and broken French. He was very thin and bony with tuffs of black hair growing from the most unusual places on his body. His face was very square and had a wide nose. Dirt and mud soiled his face and ragged scraps of clothing. Christine shuddered as his cold grey eyes tore into her face. It was as if the eyes held no emotion. Tattoos depicting perverse and violent actions were dotted all along his arms. She mentally smacked herself for being so stupid. Oh why had she left that damned bed? All for a flashing yellow light? Christine could not have felt more the part of a fool.

Christine did not have the courage to further inquire her surroundings. The man looked away. Her eyes darted around the walls of the strangely humid surroundings. Christine would have gasped if she had not been in such serious trouble. She was under the Opera house. The water in the air came from the underground lake. Several sharp points of pressure pressed against her back which proved to be the hard rock surface. What was going on? Did Erik plan this? Or were they just simply thieves looking for a hiding place. Christine dared a glance at the man sitting next to her, for she was lying on her back. She wiggled off the rough rock surfaces for the pain was hard on her back. The man looked down at her again, "Did I not say it wouldn't be wise to do that?" he said tonelessly.

Gathering what few amount of wits she had, only one word was formed on her tongue, "Why?" she managed to say.

The man looked down at her coldly, meeting her eyes, "Let me put it in a way your pretty little head can understand…if my rough face makes you tremble the one of my superior would have you shaking so hard you would faint in your expensive little shoes," he said simply with no real emotion. "Although I must admit, the boss surely was wise in choosing you. There is no doubt your husband will pay handsomely so that his little woman is returned _in tact,_" he added.

Christine knew better than to respond. Fear coursed through her veins. She may have been living the life of the rich and wealthy aristocrats but she had not forgotten what men would do for money. A chill was sent up her spine at the phrase 'in tact'. Another wave of fear was sent over her, fear for her sake as a woman. She closed her eyes in fear. Christine couldn't look anymore. Again she damned herself for leaving that bed, for leaving the hotel room, for returning to Paris, for harboring feels for Erik. Everything was her fault.

Approximately half an hour later, by Christine's poor reckoning of time, her captor rose at the presence of another man. The second man was well built with grizzled red hair and whiskers. He conversed with the first man, Christine learned that the first man's name was Maslin and the second man was called Jacque. However they did not speak in French, but instead in English. Christine cursed herself again for not being as fluent in English as she should have been. In her two years with Raoul she was obligated to learn the basics but anything beyond that was out of her range. Both men eyed her lewdly and smirked. Christine just wanted to shrink into a little ball and disappear. Why did she leave? Why?

Maslin resumed his seat next to Christine and Jacque sat himself on the other side. Like his companion, Jacque wore torn cloths and was tarred by dirt. Upon closer inspection, he was missing several yellowed teeth and was minus one eye. Christine prayed with all her might to every God and higher being she had ever heard of in her life. _Please let me make it through this alive,_ she thought with every nerve and fiber in her shaking being.

Little more happened for the next six hours or so. Christine nodded off here and there although not willingly. The men took turns guarding her and making perverse glances in her direction, each one sparked a whole new fear in her mind. However a faint glimmer of hope remained. Christine knew she did have an advantage that the other two men did not. She had been down in the cave and knew the system well. It was clear when the sun rose the next day for the cave was illuminated much better in the daylight. As it turned out, she was placed just near the brim of the lake which stood eerily still like black glass. Again, she would have gasped in shock if the situation not so serious when she saw that she was lying dangerously close to the Rue Scribe entrance. These men did not know what immanent danger they were in. Erik did not tolerate unwanted visitors. For most of the six hours that Christine had spent awake she thought mostly of Erik. She thought of every single aspect of him, as well as her feelings. There was no issue left untouched and yet Christine's heart sunk deeper each second that passed that she would never see light outside the cave again.

A good time later, Christine saw that the dark man with the tattoos, Maslin, had left for reasons of his own leaving Christine alone with Jacque. Mist swirls rose and fell at Christine's feet which were just inches from touching the surface of the lake. Many times she had caught herself pleading for Erik to come and save her as he always had done. But what reason would he have for returning? She had left him despite all the gifts he had freely bestowed upon her. She had been so selfish not to even see the endless love that was right in front of her face. How could she not see it? But no, Christine thought it was God's way of punishing her. More and more she would begin to believe she would die in the same lair of the man she had abandoned to pick up the pieces of his life that she had scattered to the four winds. Throwing her pride aside, Christine cried freely. She sobbed into the cold hard rocks, knowing better than to expect sympathy from her captors.

At the sound of her sobbing, Jacque hovered above her from and slapped her hard across the face, yelling at her keep quiet. The sheer force of the blow had been enough for Christine to hold in her despair inside. "Keep quiet wench if you value your life," he warned, slapping her again. Christine shrieked at the second blow, feeling even more helpless. Another solitary tear feel before the brute raised his fist as third time. This time Christine braced herself from the blow, but Jacque smirked in satisfaction leaving her to her helplessness. She could feel blood swelling on her face and a bruise forming. The pain was not as searing as it had been before, and Christine did and said nothing. She went to touch her hands to her sore check but only to find that her hands were bound. An urge to scream in anger, pain and defeat came over her but with great effort she suppressed it. They must have done it when she nodded off. Now there was truly nothing she could do without the usage of her hands.

Approximately another hour later Maslin returned to his post and Jacque went off. Maslin resumed his seat next to Christine, restricting even more what she could or couldn't do. As soon as Jacque had vanished to the outside world Maslin said, "Apparently our little leverage took it upon her to wallop in self-pity," he sneered.

"What do you want with me?" Christine pleaded at barely more than a desperate whisper. Maslin had not struck her and she felt slightly more acute to having Maslin around than Jacque, although by all means she hated them both and just wanted to somehow escape.

"Oh it is not us Sweetling. We are simply in for the money and perks. There is no doubt that your beloved Vicomte will pay very well for your release," Maslin sneered.

"How did you know who I was?" Christine asked, careful not to overstep her grounds that would result in another bruise and a stream of blood trickling from her mouth.

"Surely even you can figure as much? There is no one who dose not know the Vicomtess. Although I must admit, you must have been possessed by some bug of stupidly to run about at night," Maslin continued. He began fumbling in his rags for clothing, "but I must say a secret lover will do that to anyone," he laughed and pulled out the rose. The black ribbon had been torn and frayed, but it was Erik's rose none-the-less. "Imagine the look on the Vicomte's face when he finds his beloved wife has been frolicking with someone else. I would imagine he would disown you," Maslin looked positively delighted at the thought. "And if you are this willing to fool your husband of a high position who is to say that you won't pleasure even someone else," he said, rising slowly.

Christine swallowed the all-too familiar lump of bile that rose in her throat. No, she would not allow this to happen. In the man's eyes before her was the crazy look of lust in his eyes. He walked over slowly, taking advantage of Christine's tight bonds. She maneuvered herself into the tightest ball that her body would allow. This couldn't be happening. No, she would not allow it. She would die before allowing it. The man's ghoulish skin brushed up against Christine and she shuddered. As he leaned further and further over Christine did the one thing she could think of…taking careful aim and despite the ropes bound around her ankles, Christine rammed her knees with all her strength into every man's weakness. Maslin screamed out in pain as he doubled over clutching his damaged gems. Christine rolled as far as she could away from him, knowing once he gathered his senses again, which would be sooner than she wished, he would come after her full force. "You bitch," he spat out.

To her horror, Maslin rose faster than she thought he would and kicked Christine hard in the ribs with all his might. She cried out in pain and agony feeling several of her ribs crack. Again and again he kicked her on the face, on her breasts, again in her ribs. Tears of pain poured freely down her checks not caring anymore for her pride. He pulled her up by her bounds on her wrists and began striking her face and letting her drop to the ground again painfully. Christine cried out as she coughed up a pool of her own blood. Maslin forced himself on top of her and began tearing at her cloths furiously. Christine cried and screamed as hard as her full soprano range allowed her. He struck her again in the face silencing her. "Don't, please no," she cried out, not putting in any effort to hold back her tears.

"Shut up," he exclaimed, slapping her again. His hands tore at her blouse, ripping at the buttons furiously and in an animal like sadistic rage. Christine moved her hands in vain to stop him only to earn another kick sharply in between her legs. She cried out again in pain. To her utter shame and humiliation, Maslin managed to get her blouse open and began assaulting her viciously. Again Christine begged him to stop and for a moment he did but only to beat her more severely.

With one more blow to the head, Christine passed out into painful darkness that she willingly embraced.

VXIXV

"CHRISTINE!" Raoul cried, running down the streets of Paris madly. Where had she gone to? What had happened? "CHRISTINE" Running like a madman Raoul did not see the solid uniformed barrier he ran head first into.

"Sir, are you alright?" the police officer said.

Raoul looked up, "Officer, Thank the good Lord. Please, my wife she's gone missing," Raoul pleaded.

"Missing! Sir Come with me," the officer said, all the while flagging down a carriage.

"Christine," Raoul whispered.

MXIXM

Images wove in and out of her mind. She knew not who she was, only that she was enveloped in completely darkness. Her mind was swirling in confusion and distress. Many random images appeared to her: a man in a white leather mask, an old woman with inky black hair in a bonnet, the thickly Spanish accented shrieks of a woman on stage, her husband with his bronze hair and sparkling blue eyes, a little girl with brown hair, a man with black hair…a wave of panic shot through her, bring Christine back into conscious reality. "NO!" she yelled as she woke and shot up straight only to regret it instantly. Her ribs cried out in pain and left eye was swelled shut. Without the usage of one of her eyes, Christine did her best to survey herself. Bruises throbbed painfully against her arms and legs and she could feel a cut from her lower lip bleed down her face. Her breasts were black and blue and heaved up and down very painfully against her flesh. A searing pain came across her ribs once again and a fresh pain that was emitted from between her legs. "Oh God," she said, as the memory came upon her of what had happened. Christine prayed that the pain in the junction of her legs was only from when he kicked her and had not accomplished his goal. Fresh tears streamed down her stained face. What had happened?

MXIXVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

MUAHAHAHAH I am just so mean aren't I? You will just have to wait until the next chapter to find out what happened. However I think that most of you can guess what happened :D

You better have enjoyed it and the fact I uploaded two chapters in 1 day. It is three in the morning when I finished this. I must go sleep now.

Remember, if you review I will have the next chapter out much faster. (Hint hint nudge nudge)

I remain, readers, your obedient author,

E.M.


	6. Reunion

And now for chapter 6!

Thank you all for your absolutely purely wonderful reviews. Everyone, really I thank you all.

**Disclaimer: **I don't own it! Get it? Got it? Good.

**Note: **Let me just say it right now, CHRISTINE WASN'T RAPED. If you read the last part of that chapter, notice that I did not describe her surroundings at all in any way fashion or manor. If you just woke up and the last thing you remembered was a man beating you and clawing at your chest I think you would be more concerned about yourself than your surroundings. So don't worry, Christine wasn't raped.

**Dedications: **I want to dedicate this chapter for all you wonderful people who have reviewed. Especially to **SaiyoandthePhantom**. You have really helped me and given me support for getting out the next chapters quicker. All three of you have reviewed for every single chapter and have helped me more than you know. Thank you very much. Thank you to every single soul out there who has reviewed. (Bows down). Thank you. Arigato Gozai Masu. Mucous Gracias. THANK YOU! I love you all so much for reviewing.

**Warnings: **The usual stuff for a PG-15 story, which is really more of what this is, but just not strong enough for an M rated story. Anyhow, you have been warned. Also, Raoul acts like more of an arse.

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM

Erik gazed down at the sleeping form before him. Christine was sleeping soundly with her chest moving up and down in a docile state. A strange surge of emotion came over him as he watched the women before him so beaten up and tattered. It was a strange sensation he had never felt before, nor could be put a name to; it was a mixture of pain, rage, anger, grief, and empathy. It had been so close. So close. It was too close for his liking. She had to the brink of being cruelly violated in a way that he couldn't begin to fathom.

As per norm, he had been prowling his Opera house, scanning for intruders and watching the ballet and Chorus girls sneak off with there boyfriends to frolic in desire. Not much had really chanced and with no sign of a foolhardy burglar or an uninvited beggar looking for shelter from the night, Erik decided to retire for the night. He had been out much longer than usual, knowing that with the re-opening of his theatre that it would no doubt attract the occasional unwanted guest. As he had begun to descend into his lair of darkness Erik had noticed a foreign lantern illuminated his veil of black night. He had certainly not placed it there so obviously to anyone who passed. At first he assumed it was another hormone dominated youth that was on a quest from his peers to sneak into the hellish domain of the damned soul of the Opera Ghost. It certainly had not been the first one, but all of them had emerged with a right mind never to return. Erik smirked at the thought. There had been no doubt in his mind that he would find the little brat ransacking his home. Sighing, Erik had turned to the direction of the glossy black lake and his boat, which floated from side to side on the black glass surface.

Just as he had made a first step into the gondola an enraged yell caught his sharp ears. Erik perked his ears up, listening carefully. Out from the darkness he could hear a distinctly male voice yell, "You bitch," _Maybe it isn't the usual burglar or impulsive teenager, _Erik thought, pushing off from the boat. His ears had told him it came from the direction of the Rue-Scribe entrance. Pulling up his cloak, Erik pushed silently across the lake. The sound of struggle was getting distinctly clearer and Erik could make out the two clear voices of a man and a woman struggling. What was going on? Intrigued even more, Erik walked from his position from his boat and back into the shadows. His eyes opened in horror at the sight in front of him; a man, street scum by the looks of him, was clawing madly and in a blind rage at a bound woman before his feet who was trying desperately to push him off her. Erik knew the look of lust in his cold eyes as he beat and hit the woman harder and harder. It was only when the woman pleaded for him to stop that rage took a hold of Erik's very being. He felt as if ten thousand volts of electricity had shot through his body and paralyzed him in the spot. What was Christine doing down there? Adrenaline pulsed through his body at such a rapid rate that Erik found it almost impossible to even breathe, much less move. He could se the pain in her face, the blood tricking down, her tear stained eyes. Just as he pulled open her blouse revealing her perfect body for the bastard to relish the sight of and forced her legs open, Erik broke out of his mental paralysis and ceased to be Erik.

All Erik could remember in his rage and anger was swooping down upon the man and chocking the life out of him. He did not need a Punjab Lasso to kill someone. This man who would so vilely violate a woman, much less Christine, deserved not the gift to have the life quickly squeezed from his lungs. His hand clutched the man's throat and Erik thoughtlessly drove the life giving force out of his body. The man began to struggle against the mighty force of the Phantom above him but soon found that all strength had been deprived. His face turned from pale chalk to grey and devoid of life as Erik's grip increased all the more. Erik did not think of the person he was strangling beneath him, all his mind thought was the pain this bastard had caused Christine. The struggle ended as soon as it had begun and Erik regained control of his senses as his attention turned to the unconscious angel at his heels. Erik forgot all his anger as he cradled his fallen angel in his arms. What had she done to deserve that? Christine's breathing was sharp, infrequent and labored. Crimson liquid flowed freely from multiple points on her body. Ivory skin had become a sickening black and blue swirl of bruising and cuts. In that moment, Erik wanted to absorb all her pain into him; he wanted to free her from her pain. In the surge of the moment, Erik knew that he had to get her medical help as soon as possible if she were to have no lasting injuries. He ran as fast as his earthly limbs would allow him.

And here he was, looking down at the face of the one being he cared more for than his own life. No matter how much pain, agony and hurt she had caused him, and knowingly caused him, Erik loved her. It made absolutely no sense, but Erik did not care. He had dressed her wounds to the best of his ability, knowing there was little to be done about her broken ribs save for allowing them to be free to begin the healing process. Steadily over the past several hours, Erik noticed that her breathing came and went at more even increments and was less laborious. Erik had not moved even a fraction of an inch in the four hours she had remained unconscious lying in the bed he had picked out for her. The Louis-Phillipe room had been the only place Erik thought of that would house her safely and he hoped that Christine would find some comfort in waking up to a familiar setting.

Later on, Erik silently left from her side to make sure that none of the other bastard sons of scum were prowling his cavern under his opera house. Unknown to him that was at the exact moment that Christine woke up (**A/N:** where the last chapter ended). In a futile attempt to get up, Christine had stressed her ribs beyond their endurance in their current fragile state and passed out in the fresh rip of pain. When Erik had returned he found her unconscious in much the state she had been before.

XIX

The following morning Christine awoke to the sound of scurrying in the Louis-Philippe Room. Her body ached unforgiving as she began to worm her way out of the sheets. In her heart Christine knew that Erik had come to her rescue, much like that of a prince upon a white horse. It was the only plausible option; Raoul had been above ground, no doubt searching franticly for his missing wife, everyone in the Opera Populaire were fast asleep, completely oblivious to the world around them (or more likely, the her distress beneath them). The first time Christen had awoken, she was too preoccupied with the condition of her body and the points of extreme pain on her body instead of her surroundings. Her last thought before her charred ribs had given way she saw the familiar tall hovering black shadow of Erik. She had not dreamed the second time she fainted, but instead rested contently. Her unconscious mind knew she was safe in Erik's presence. "Don't move," a strong voice said gently.

Christine turned her head, rather painfully, to the direction of the doorway. There Erik stood, tall and ominous in his usual black. His facial expression was unreadable, but that was nothing new, and his white leather mask was in place as it always was. More or less, Erik looked the same as he had two years previous. Christine blushed under his hard gaze, feeling a new wave of guilt and affection for the man that stood in frame. Again Erik spoke, "You shouldn't move, it will only further the already considerable extent of your injuries," Erik said sternly. Christine felt dwarfed in his presence, a feat he had always made her feel. A sense of unknowing came over the young woman. What would Erik say? What could she say? After all, everything had been her fault. Christine lowered her head in shame: shame at being stupid enough to leave that damned hotel, shame for leaving Erik to pick up the tattered pieces of his life, and the utter humiliation at her situation. Christine did not know if that thing, for she could not call him a man (Maslin), had indeed accomplished his intended goal of raping her. For all she knew, Erik could have walked in on him violating her horribly. She crouched lower onto the bed, not caring for the cries of her broken ribs.

Erik was surprised to see her awake and up so quickly. He had had far too much experience in the matters of women being raped, and many would just refuse to emerge from the state of unconsciousness preferring to stay in their world of passive dreams and avoid the harsh truths of reality. Erik did not blame them, more often that what he would admit it, he would pray to whatever Supreme Being there was to release him from his torture and not allow him to wake. However each time he would wake the next day to Ayesha purring soundly at his feet. At the sight of Christine shrinking into a little ball, Erik wanted to take all of her pain into his body. No body deserved to be treated as such; especially Christine who's only true crime had been unknowingly intoxicating his mind with her beautiful songs. "Christine I…" Erik began, but Christine quickly cut on off.

"Why?" Christine questioned softly.

"Why what?" Erik asked, his obvious lack of people skills shining through.

"Why did you save me?" Christine said, all the more silent with each syllable.

Erik began to feel his temper rise. Why would he save her? He thought it painfully obvious: he loved her with all his being and couldn't bear to watch his Angel being raped right at his doorstep. "I would have thought that obvious," Erik said allowing his temper to remain dominant over reason.

"Don't play games," Christine replied softly, clutching her ribs in pain and allowing silent tears creep down her marred face.

Getting all the more mad Erik said, "What profit would I have in playing any games?" His voice was dangerously dry.

Christine not wanting to hear anymore of it, sniffing back a sob. "Leave me," she said.

"You did not answer my question! What profit would I make from partaking in games," Erik demanded. It was she who played the games! It was she who left him with that whelp, the Vicomte de Chagny. It was her that tore out his soul and heart with one yank and left. It was all her. Or instead was she so deeply submerged in them that even she did not see the way she toyed with people.

"Leave me," Christine said stronger, daring to meet his angry golden eyes which flashed in anger.

Erik did nothing. He knew if his tongue should move again it would unleash horrid words of insults that both of them would regret later on. Instead Erik left, slamming the door shut. The small metal latch flew across the room from the force Erik had slammed the door.

Christine let her tears flow freely, not bothering to subdue her sobs. What else should she have expected? She had left him. What else was to be expected? _Not this, _she thought silently. Her ribs hurt against the pressure she put on them. Finally, she allowed her pride to lose the battle and laid back down on the soft pillows. Another wave of pain hit her between the legs and the complete uncertainly of whether or not she had been raped came over her again. Christine cursed herself for being minded enough to faint. At least if she had managed to remain awake her mind would not be bombarded with the ever persistent question as to whether or not she had been raped. Christine did not notice Ayesha as she, with all her feline grace, ran across the room and didn't even bother glaring daggers at Christine.

Again, cursing herself to be damned, Christine gave up her battle and fell asleep.

VIV

Raoul tapped his foot in anger and annoyance. He had been waiting for a solid hour while the police scurried around him on obvious disorder. The officer had promised that he would have a full squad hot on Christine's missing trail before the morning light had risen. Well the sun had been up for a good several hours and Raoul was still waiting in impatience. _What will it take for these imbeciles to pull their heads out and realize that my wife has gone missing, _Raoul cursed. If this was how they reacted when the Vicomtess de Chagny disappeared, Raoul could only imagine all the pain in waiting that a member of a lower class family had to suffer through.

Because there was no official guest lobby, Raoul was sitting in the chamber outside where prisoners were temporarily detained. The chair he sat in was painfully uncomfortable having no cushioned seat, but Raoul said nothing and gazed at the man and woman behind the cold iron bars just across from his seat. The man was propped up against the small metal bed bolted to the wall, while the woman leaned against the wall with her arms across her rather excessive bosom. "Don't feel left out," the man chuckled coldly. "You are one of the luckier ones, mostly the street vermin just humble around in their perfectly cleaned uniforms flaunting their guns. But no, for you they scurry about like the deceiving rats they are," he spat out.

"All in the mind of what you conceder 'street vermin'," Raoul replied coldly. The man had chocolate colored hair and a thick bush of whiskers from sideburn to side burn. His eyes were the same color of his hair, but reflected his manor of lifestyle. His skin was dark and tanned giving him the look of an Arabian, or at least someone of Arabic blood. The woman was scantily clad; Raoul assumed she was a prostitute, with wild red hair and fiery green eyes. Her expression was that of disgust at the Vicomte. The feeling was mutually returned as Raoul churned his nose at the heavy makeup she wore.

"Yes, I guess it is in what you conceder the Vermin. For your pampered ass it would consist if us, the poor people who will do whatever means it takes to survive. But for us, it is your so called 'honorable' police men who take pleasure and pride of ransacking what little resources we have left. It is your police that pretend to befriend is in clever guises only to betray our location, destroying what family we have, feeding them to the wolves of the rack. Or worse, we come face to face with the National Razor while you pompous people with your money laugh in cruel mockery while our heads become separated and our souls damned. So tell me, who exactly are the street vermin," the man replied bitterly.

Raoul could do nothing but glare acidly at the two prisoners. The woman remained silent but continued to assault him viciously with her eyes. "Zahir, why do you waist your words of wise with nothing but a rich spoiled whelp?" the woman said coldly. Her voice was very thickly accented, and Raoul judged that she was Irish or Scottish.

"Annfwn, it matters not. The mind of a rich man, for he is not a whelp, cannot be swayed save by the loss of his money. Our words have no lasting effect," Zahir soothed. Annfwn spat onto the floor in disgust.

"Quiet down you two, or else it will be all the sooner you meet your appointment with the docks to Australia," a guard said as he came in through the doors. "Sir," he directed at Raoul, "Come with me and we can get to work on discovering your wife's whereabouts. She has to be in the city. No one, no matter how swift, would be able to get past the gates of Paris so quickly," the officer said. "I hope that those two have not been a bother. Nothing more can really be expected from a thief and whore," he said.

"Indeed," Raoul replied. They knew nothing. All those two, Zahir and Annfwn, were was black souls that roamed the streets. They should not be the ones to lecture him on ravaging wolves.

"After all, what would two primped and proper _gentlemen _know of life on the street? The cold alone would kill them off in just a few seconds," Annfwn said viciously.

"Silence wench, unless you wish to appointed with the racks," the officer threatened. "Although I would doubt you would know much of the cold since your primary occupation consists of keeping men well satisfied and warm. I have no doubt you benefit from your sinful lust," he added.

Zahir and Annfwn said nothing, just resumed their normal composer behind bars. Raoul said nothing and quickly flanked the guard. He couldn't wait until this nightmare was over and Christine back home safe and sound.

VIV

Christine woke several hours later. Her head no longer thumped painfully and her ribs had dulled to a soft pulsating ache. Again she inspected her skin; most parts were still black and blue from all the bruising. However the swelling on her eye and lips had reduced and blood no longer flowed. Awake and full of energy, for the most part given her condition, Christine could not stand spending another hour in bed unoccupied. Since her fight with Erik, Christine knew that he would no doubt be in a foul disposition. Slowly she maneuvered herself out of bed and the pain at V junction in her legs no longer seared with pain, a sign that indeed that foul creature of evil had not violated her. Her legs were still somewhat wobbly under her weight, but Christine knew it would be better hastily regain her strength at risk than to safely wait for months until she healed. For the first time she noted that her skirt, blouse and corset had been removed, leaving only her thin cotton petticoat she wore underneath. No doubt it had been Erik who had done it, but Christine was not befuddled with her usual modestly. She could only imagine the pain if her corset had remained on against her shattered ribs. She did not need a doctor to tell her that at least one of her ribs had been shattered and two others broken. She looked around the room for her lost clothing but it was nowhere to be found. Christine sighed; it was not as if she would ever wear it again. The last thing she would need was a reminder of what happened to her.

Looking around her Christine caught sight of the vanity that accompanied the bed in the Louis-Phillipe room. Upon it was a peacock colored dress that was simple and did not cling to the body. It had no hoop skirt, but one that just simply fell flat to the floor. Christine was grateful that Erik had not left her without any cloths and the dress was simple enough that it would not look indecent if didn't wear a corset. She was glad that there would be no corsets in her immediate future, or at least for a good few months with her broken ribs. She abhorred the things and cursed society and their rules for a trim and thin waste on a woman. Quickly Christine dressed. When she had finished, for the first time, she noticed that upon her pillow adjacent to where her head had been propped during sleep was a rose with black satin ribbon laced around the middle. The young woman smiled. It was his way of forgiveness. There was no doubt that pride would not allow Erik to speak the words aloud, but instead he let the rose speak for him. It was the only language of forgiveness he knew. Christine picked it up and inhaled the sweet scent.

Silently she crept out of the room. Just as to why she crept Christine did not know because after all, Erik had brought her to his lair. She looked around for his domineering presence but it was nowhere around. From above Christine could hear the stomping of feet and shrill singing of rehearsals. Too quickly she recognized the opera, it was _Faust._ She smiled at the memories it brought back to her. Christine could still hear the crowed gawking as La Carlotta began croaking like a toad for all to laugh at. Somewhere Christine knew that Erik had a firm hand in that, because even La Carlotta did not suddenly become the animal she so much resembled. Her smile widened when, even from stories below the light of the world above, the hollering of the maestro echoed throughout the cavernous house, "ONE-TWO-THREE-FOUR, TWO-TWO-THREE-FOUR! HOW DIFFICULT IS THAT TO UNDERSTAND!" Christine hoped that Papillion had not been the target of his outburst.

As she wandered through the house Christine was in awe how much damage it clearly sustained and yet still stood just as firmly as it had two years ago. Erik must have spent months and months putting things back into their proper order. He truly was a genius, especially in architecture and music. She had never fully known of his architectural gifts then when she surveyed the repaired home. Christine continued to wander around the house until she had reached the library. It was not as it once had been. Torn pages were askew and many of the books had gone missing. In the corner a small moth eaten leather couch stood and Christine took a seat on it, not caring for its poor condition. She had lived under worse circumstances with her father when money had been a precious gift.

From above Christine could hear the lead soprano begin to screech out her favorite song from _Faust. _She turned her nose up as the shrilly sharp notes befuddled her ears. Even Carlotta had not been that off key in her upper register. After several more moments, the music ceased from above and the conductor's shouts could be heard again. _I am surprised his vocal cords have not given out. We could have used him before. Our baritone section was hideous,_ Christine chuckled to herself. Once again the gentle key strokes of the piano were heard as it led into the Aria. Without really thinking, Christine began to sing along with the music. It felt like pure bliss to her soul. It had been nearly two and a half years since she had properly used her voice. She knew that it was not as it once had been but didn't care. The feeling of stretching her old cords as wonderful. Raoul had never really been one for music; it was his family name and prestige that had convinced him to become the official patron of the _Opera Populaire_. For several more minutes the song continued until the maestro's shouts were again heard.

"Your voice has gone flat in the years," said the deep voice of Erik.

Christine turned around and a blush crept on her checks, "I did not know you were there. If I had known I would not have burdened you. I know my voice has become stiff," she said.

"By orders of the Vicomte, I presume," Erik said with dark sarcasm.

"Unfortunately yes," Christine confessed. "The wife of a man of prestige is supposed to beyond the foolish confines of singing," she said.

"Then the society of the aristocratic deprives you of your soul," Erik said simply, taking a seat from across from her with a tattered book in hand. Christine surveyed the spine and read that it was Dante's _Inferno_. In her months of education and 'refinement' before she and Raoul had wed, Christine had been forced to read up on hundreds of famous books. The _Inferno_ was one of them, and one that she bitterly detested. She never could grasp how a novel on Hell and its cruelness could become world renowned literature.

"Erik I—thank you," Christine said. At first she was going to apologize only to realize that it would no doubt spark another dispute.

Erik looked up from his book. The _Inferno_ had always captivated him. It described his life so ideally, save for the fact that he was alive unlike the poor devils that dwelt in eternal suffering in literature. Meeting Christine's injured face he nodded. He hated to see her littered by marks of black and blue and cursed the men who did this to her. No one deserved to have a marred face, he would know. However Erik knew in time it would heal. Bruises came and went, unlike the eternal scarring of his hideous visage.

At that moment the mood between them was ruined as another infernal yell was heard, "VINCENT, IF YOU WOULD PULL YOUR HEAD OUT LONG ENOUGH TO LISTEN YOU MAY LEARN A THING OR TWO AND NOT LISTEN TO ME SHOUTING!"

Christine burst out laughing, despite the atmosphere down in the lair of the Opera Ghost. However her ribs soon called out in protest as she fell over clutching them in pain. Erik rushed over to her side to aid her however soon buckled under her as she fell from the couch. Both of them were soon entangled on the floor in a rather obscure position. Christine had tears of laughter in her eyes, even though she winced under his weight. Erik on the other hand felt weak being caught completely off guard by Christine's lack of balance. However as he pushed himself up, Erik could not help but smile a real smile at the sight of his Angel happy.

MXIXVXIXM

END CHAPTER.

I worked as hard as I could to get this out quickly. I didn't want to leave all you people hanging. I know how much it sucks to be kept in the dark. Don't hate me for my version of Raoul.

(hugs my name dictionary)

(glomps my Erik plushie)

Until next time

I remain, readers, your faithful author,

E.M.


	7. Of Zahir and Nadir

The insane one has returned for chapter 7!

Let me say this now, chapter 7 WILL be the final chapter before I leave for five weeks. I have no clue as to whether or not I can update using my dad's laptop. Even then, I still won't be able to write very often because he is a truck driver and I will only be able to update at truck stops. That is a slim chance to itself. Do not yell or flame me because if this. I might be able to update when I am in New York, I don't know.

**Disclaimer: **Oh you know the usual. Nothing belongs to me; all is property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber and all those people. I DO however own Zahir, Annfwn, Linette (as well as all of her family), Maslin and Jacque. Leave them alone. No touchie…I spent too long looking up French, Irish and Arabic names for them.

**ShadowDragon: **Two points to that. The romance has already begun…and now how to dump Raoul with out every Raoul-lover under the sun out for my blood…hmm…such a daunting question….punjab'ing him wouldn't satisfy me, I must admit…

**Notes: **Thank you to all you absolutely wonderful people who have reviewed. I love you all, thank you so much.

**A/N1: _SPOILERS: _**The name I chose for Erik dose not mean "Trap-Door lover" which is what Leroux states it is in Persia. I spent forever looking for an accurate translation, but could not find a single one. So instead I chose a different name, you will find out what it is below, and it means "one who conquers".

**Warnings: **The usual stuff, violence, language, sexuality.

POLL TIME!

Do you think that I should up the rating to M? The official M rating is PG-16, but this story really doesn't go above PG-15. Should I up it just to be safe? For those of you who have read my Harry Potter story, you know I had the same dilemma.

Enjoy…

MXIXVXIXM (**A/N:** Set a few hours after the last chapter left off, around midnight)

Zahir and Annfwn surveyed each other in boredom. It had been nearly five hours since the Vicomte left, and six days since their incarceration with only the other for company, not that either of them minded. Both Zahir and Annfwn had "partners in crime" of sorts for the past three years. In truth Annfwn had a much darker and deeper past with the police than what her record recorded. Rightfully the offence of burglary, theft, armed robbery, and attempted murder should have marred her record, but Zahir had struck a deal, allowing her to get off with a minor offence of prostitution. But on the other hand, Zahir had a much blacker past than she with what little Annfwn gathered from her partner and best friend. The Arabian man said very little on his past, only hinting that he had come from Persia and was on the run from three charges of first degree murder. She had found him shortly after he had escaped into France, lying on the street unable to speak a word of French. In a way the pair considered themselves no more than friends, but much closer than lovers. Zahir and Annfwn held a deep mutual respect for each other that connected them in a way that lovers would never know. "Do you recon they found his beloved Vicomtess?" Zahir said, breaking the silence.

"I don't know, and frankly I could care less. It is no concern of mine when a rich spoiled imbecile goes missing. I see it as one less person to worry about," Annfwn said viciously, her Irish rooted temper flaring. "What concern is it to you?" she inquired curiously.

"Very little—however it is not everyday that we meet a man that genuinely cares for his wife. That boy seemed deeply turned at the news of his wife's disappearance," Zahir replied. It was very strange the cultural difference from the world he had come from to what people expected in the French society. Back in Persia, Zahir had very rarely seen a man distraught at all over the disappearance of his wife, or rather one of his wives. More often than not, a man would have so many wives he would not take even the slightest bit of notice if one of them did indeed go missing.

"Do my ears deceive me? You told me just recently that that Vicomte rat was a man, not the whelp I deemed him," Annfwn joked.

"Do _my _ears deceive _me_? Or did you really not notice the guard at the door listening to our every word," Zahir said sarcastically. _Really_, he thought. _Sometimes she could be so daft, and at other times there was not a man alive more acute than her._ It had been her street smarts that kept him alive when he came to Paris. Yet Zahir often felt himself wondering how she had kept out of trouble before. Annfwn's temper was so unpredictable and her pride was so easy to prey upon.

"In you go, you mongrel…or else you'll be meeting an early appointment with the racks," a guard said coming in through the doors. Zahir and Annfwn quickly hardened and tensed at the sight of the police officer. There was no doubt he had been listening to them, but neither one cared. Neither Zahir nor Annfwn was stupid or bold enough to speak of their crimes in a temporary holding cell. Next to the guard was a man with grizzled rustic auburn hair and whiskers. He was strongly built, but the guard handled him like a toddler would a toy. He did not protest as the guard threw him headfirst into the cell and remained silent as his head collided with the concrete floor. Zahir and Annfwn exchanged glances. "And I suggest that you two better not be getting any funny ideas," the guard threatened.

"Don't worry your fluffed and puffed head about it. If we have any ideas of escape, you will be the first one to know," Annfwn mocked cruelly and spat at the guard. Zahir could not help but laugh, she was either really bold or very stupid. But mostly Zahir figured she was both. The guard said nothing but his face racked into a scowl at the mention of her petty insult. Only a foolish up-breed would get so bent out of shape from such a petty crack. But Zahir reckoned as much, most of the police officers were nothing but men with fancy titles and a rifle. It was no different in Persia.

The guard slammed the door shut furiously from his wounded pride and Annfwn smiled in triumph. "One day your insults are going to get us killed," Zahir said.

"Then let the fools who do so with the right state of mind…let them always remember our last words of sarcasm," Annfwn mused to herself. She then turned her green gaze to the man the floor. "Are you alright," she inquired routinely without much feeling.

"Not that it would matter to you," the man said.

"You are right in assuming that," Zahir answered. It mattered little what the condition of his fellow thieves were. He could care less, just so long as he and Annfwn were alive and roaming the streets as the "ravaging wolves" the Vicomte de Chagny blindly hated so much. Zahir didn't know why the Vicomte's words upset him so; he had met with many Vicomtes, Barons, Lords and even a Sultan in his lifetime and all of them were the same. Shaking his head, Zahir said, "What is your name?"

"Why do you care?" the man said as he propped himself up on his knees. From what Zahir could gather he had seen better days. Bruises formed up and along every limb in his body. Both of his eyes were bloodied as well as his lips. Around his neck were vibrant red marks that suggested a noose or lasso of some sort had been wrapped around his neck. Zahir examined the imprint closer and quickly found that it had come from a Punjab Lasso. The mark was perfectly rounded and clearly a master of the lasso had administered it rather ruthlessly on the man. _Strange, I only knew one person who could exert the force of a Punjab so efficiently and he never left anyone alive, _Zahir mused.

"I don't, but you obviously do in your reluctance to answer anything," Zahir said, forcing his mind off the lasso and onto the man.

The man crackled, "An intelligent crook, now I have seen everything," he said. "Fine, if you really want to know my name is Jacque," he said.

"What brings you here, Jacque?" Annfwn asked, unfolding her arms in interest.

"For reasons not so different from yours," Jacque said. Zahir listened intently, wanting to know who had been the expert Punjab master. The only person he knew that could make a Punjab so efficiently was Ghazwan back in Persia. Often Zahir found himself wondering what had become of Ghazwan. His cousin, Nadir, had smuggled him from Persia shortly prior to Zahir leaving. Zahir had only met the man once but he would never forget it. Ghazwan obviously not of Arabic blood, but he spoke the language so fluently and perfectly as if he had resided there his entire life. He was much taller than the average Persian, and always clothed himself in black despite the unforgiving Persian sun. At first Zahir thought Ghazwan was English, or French, or even German. Ghazwan had been a perfect executer of pain and physical torture on the body, mind and soul. Compared to his own crimes, Zahir would be a saint in Ghazwan's shadow. Yet for all of his seemingly infinite knowledge of torture and weapons, Ghazwan preferred a medieval way of killing people—The Punjab Lasso. But the strangest thing of all about Ghazwan was the fact that Zahir never saw his face, or at least the right side of his face. He would always wear a white leather mask to hide his visage. Zahir got the distinct feeling that he never wanted to see beneath it and never brought it up.

"And what would that be?" Zahir said, beating Annfwn in the race of tongues.

Jacque laughed grittily and said in a hoarse voice, "Kidnapping. Although it was my partner that got a bit…_carried away_," Jacque smirked. "She was quite the catch I admit, in both looks and money. But Maslin was a fool to let his emotions rule him," he crackled darkly. Zahir said nothing. And Annfwn dared not interrupt him. "Oh yes, the Vicomtess de Chagny has quite the chip on her shoulder, especially after that whole 'phantom' scandal. It was my boss's idea to kidnap her—something about revenge—but the pay was good as were the perks. But that bloody bastard who harbored more balls than brains decided skip the pay and head straight for the perks. That little wench was so impudent that I thought it right for Maslin to break her in. But when the screams stopped I went to check and saw Maslin dead. I remember not what happened next, other than a cloaked stranger took the liberty of this," Jacque pointed to his neck. "I woke up with the nozzle of a gun in my back. And now I am here," he finished.

"Who was it that tried to kill you and murdered your partner," Annfwn questioned docilely, knowing that Jacque was not the normal street criminal. He had a heart of stone that had been chiseled away.

"I know not, except he wore all black and a mask," Jacque finished with a laugh. "She really was quite the catch".

"A mask!" Zahir exclaimed. Surely it could not be the same man. Why would Ghazwan be in Paris? Even more, why would the screams a woman drive him to kill?

However before Jacque could answer the metal and wooden door swung open again. Zahir gasped at the figure that stood in frame…it was Nadir. "Just what we need, more company," Annfwn complained, earning a silencing look from Zahir. First there was news of Ghazwan and now here he stood face to face with his cousin. But then it clicked in Zahir's head, _of course, _he thought, _after all Ghazwan and Nadir were always close. _Nadir looked more or less the same as he always did, in black robes and with a turban on his head, making sure that no bystander could mistake his heritage. His jade eyes were much the same.

"Cousin, what are you doing here?" Zahir questioned at Nadir.

"Cousin?" Annfwn said perplexed.

"Annfwn, for once in your life, be silent," Zahir ordered. With a 'humph', Annfwn resumed her normal composure. Jacque said nothing and fingered his throat.

"I see new of Erik has already reached you," Nadir said calmly.

"Erik?" Zahir replied. Who was Erik? What he related to Ghazwan some way?

"Pardon me cousin…Erik is only his French title, you knew him as Ghazwan," Nadir apologized.

"What dose Ghazwan have anything to do with this. Why would the lover of trap-doors and lassos be in Paris," Zahir said impatiently, taking on the aurora of Annfwn. He cursed himself for his impatience, but there were too many questions jumping around in his head.

"Alas dear cousin, first thing is first—and I feel you will agree on this: do we really want unnecessary eavesdroppers?" Nadir said, turning the table's cleverly against his cousin. Zahir grumbled; Nadir always had a point to make which was why he had made the position of Daroga with much more ease than he (Zahir) had. Nadir had his hands folded stubbornly across his chest, refusing to say another word unless Jacque was taken care of. With a sigh Zahir apologized for what he was about to do, and struck Jacque with the full force of his muscled arms. Jacque inhaled sharply upon impact but was quickly met with peace as he fell to the floor out cold.

"Satisfied?"

"Almost," Nadir said, looking at Annfwn. The Irish woman just glared back, as if daring the Persian to strike at her.

"She is with me cousin. Annfwn can be trusted," Zahir defended. Nadir gave him a reproachful glance, but Zahir met it full on. It was one of the only things that the two cousins had in common…both Zahir and Nadir were stubborn and refused to back down in a battle, whether or it was in war or wits.

"I wouldn't have thought you to become soft with a woman," Nadir mocked.

"Aye, and I wouldn't have suspected you to be fool enough to think that I would think of a woman in such a manor. We are partners, nothing more and nothing less. Whatever graces my lobes will do the same for her, and vice versa," Zahir said, protecting his best friend and comrade. Annfwn and he were bound by something thicker than blood; friendship. And although undeniable, Annfwn was a beautiful woman, Zahir really could not bring himself to think of her in the way of a lover.

"Fine, but let it be on your conscious, not mine. I will not be blamed for your mal-judgment," Nadir scowled at Annfwn who smirked. _No_, Nadir thought in the privacy of his head, _she is much too headstrong for Zahir to think of her as anything more than a friend and comrade. _"As I am sure you must have figured out, Ghazwan is in Paris," Nadir said.

"I should have figured as much. After all, wherever he is you are—tailing him like a bitch in heat," Zahir said coolly.

"Your insults are not necessary. I do not come for a fight, but if it is a fight you want I will give you just that. And make no mistake, I will win," Nadir threatened. Zahir scowled, knowing the truth behind his cousin's words. Although physically Zahir clearly had the advantage, Nadir was on good terms with the law and he was on the one sitting inside of a barrier of cold iron bars. Swallowing his pride, Zahir remained silent and allowed his cousin to speak. "I can also assume that you know that it was Ghazwan that nearly cost this man his life, and the life of his partner," Nadir said.

"I assumed as much. Only Ghazwan could construct and execute a Punjab with such accuracy," Zahir replied tonelessly.

"Cousin, instead of wooing you with petty words of blood oaths let me be honest. I come here in need of a favor, something that I cannot accomplish but you can," Nadir pleaded, losing all sarcasm. Zahir gave no reply so Nadir went on, "As you well know, Ghazwan is my friend and comrade, of sorts, much the same as her. He is in trouble and needs to leave the country. I cannot smuggle him out, my name is too well-known and dirtied. You, on the other hand, have a clean record in Persia. Well…a clean record under a presumed name, but I do not feel that you would be foolish enough to use your real name. You can smuggle him to safety. Many men are out for his blood in Persia, but nothing compared to who wish for his head here. Ghazwan would be much safer and in better hands if he were in a country of familiarity, on both your parts. Please cousin, I care not for blood oaths and words of our forefathers," Nadir begged.

"And so you just want me to ignore every moral fiber in my body, much less my hatred for you, and risk my neck (as well as the lives of others) to save some friend of yours who is in over his head? Nadir, cousin, have you been into your opium just a few too many times tonight?" Zahir exclaimed. After everything Nadir had done to ruin his life in Persia, he had the nerve to come and confront him in prison and ask to the favor of some fool's mission. _And people always thought that I was the bad seed. _

"I can compensate you," Nadir said quickly. "Money will be offered, of course, as well as free passage into and out from Persia again. I can clean your record in every country you have come across in. I can give you your freedom," Nadir bribed. "And her's," he added at Annfwn.

"I'm listening," Zahir said simply.

"I will get you out of here, and then you must come with me and get Ghazwan out of France and into Persia. Please cousin…if you do this I will compensate you and you will never hear hyde or hair of me ever again," Nadir begged.

"There is just one problem in your master plan," Zahir said acidly.

"And what is that?" Nadir replied just as coldly.

"I'm in here---you're out there," Zahir snorted.

"Tsk tsk, you would think in almost twenty years to know that your cousin is never without his tricks," Nadir said smoothly. He reached inside his robes and pulled out an iron ring with about half a dozen keys dangling from it. "Rest assured, I learned a thing or two from your habits," he said sarcastically and began testing the keys for which one fit the jail lock.

"Then by all means, lead the way," Zahir said. He then turned to Annfwn who looked surprisingly calm, "Are you up to another adventure?" there was no denying that they both could use the money and freedom. It was a good deal if both of them could benefit from it, _and even better, I won't have to see that backstabbing bastard ever again, _Zahir thought glaring at Nadir who was fumbling with the locks.

At the sound of a soft 'click' Annfwn smirked and said, "Bring it on. Anything is better than this dismal confinement," she laughed and stepped out from the jail cell with Zahir in her wake. Nadir motioned for them to follow and the pair followed.

MXIXM (the next morning)

Christine moaned out loud as she felt a strong grip shake her shoulders. "Alright alright," she said dryly and was glad when the assault ceased. She opened her tired eyes, for it could only be very early morning, to find Erik looking down at her with all seriousness. The expression he bore was a mixture of emotions that Christine could not quite put a name it. Something had to be wrong. "Erik, what's wrong?" Christine inquired.

"Hurry up and get dressed. It looks like the accomplices of the fools who took you are back," Erik growled impatiently. Christine's eyes shot open wide. What would happen if they found her? Nodding in understanding Christine watched Erik leave allowing for privacy. Christine took advantage of it and dressed as quickly as her injured state allowed. She wore the same peacock blue dress from the previous day; it allowed her the movement she would need in her healing state. It was not a second too soon because the next sound that came to her was the impatient racking on the wooden door. Christine opened it. Erik, in his usual black, grabbed her hand and began leading her through the house. Despite being underground, his lair was almost ridiculously complex with passageways and corridors just as any house would be on the surface.

"Erik, where are you taking me?" she asked as her wrist was beginning to hurt under his massive grip.

Erik said nothing as he went through his home. He would not allow them to get their hands on her again. Never. He would personally see to it that he would Punjab their heads from their bodies. As he raced madly through his cavernous house, Erik cursed himself for making the blasted mirror so entwined in the dark. It was the only exit from his lair that would physically ease Christine's passage. The man hoped that Christine's dressing room had remained empty in her two year leave, it was the only real hiding place that Christine would be at least semi-safe in. ignoring her questions, Erik soon found the tapestry that concealed the mirror entrance.

Christine silenced her questions as she saw the tapestry. Fiddling with levers on the wall, Christine watched as Erik pulled the correct switch and the mirror swung open. Without a word, Erik pulled her inside the dark corridor. Normally Christine would have been frightened when she entered such piercing darkness, but with Erik guiding her hand Christine did not fear it. The corridor only went one way and there were no traps or junctions that interweaved within it. Erik designed it that way, as Christine well knew.

Soon Erik eased his pace and eventually it came to a halt as he again began to finger the cold stone walls. "Ah ha!" he said in triumph as the click of another lever was heard and yet another mirror swung open. Taking her hand in his, Christine blushed guiltily as her heart skipped a beat; Erik led her into her former dressing room. It was extremely nostalgic to be in the same room where she had once spent so many hours singing with her mysterious "Angel of Music". Christine could literary feel all of the happy memories flooding her. Who would have thought that her Angel of Music was no more, or less, than a tortured genius?

Christine was soon pulled back into reality, quite literally, as Erik tugged fiercely on her arm. She gasped in pain for a split second, but managed to turn it into a cough. "Stay here, don't move. Only ill can come of those sons of bitches find you again," Erik warned. In his golden eyes a flicker of emotion that Christine could not quite catch flashed but was gone in the next instant. She nodded her head in understanding and watched as Erik crept back through the mirror. Now that Christine could see the entirety of his figure, her gaze was immediately drawn to the Punjab lasso he grasped. She watched as the door slammed shut behind him. Christine suddenly became frightened of the fact that she felt absolutely no pity towards the fate of the men below. Normally she would always drown in sadness at the thought of another soul being murdered but not this time. This time she cared nothing for the things that had violated her so horribly, even if Maslin hadn't raped her.

After pondering the subject the entire previous eve, Christine had quickly found that indeed Erik had saved her from the brink of being violated. While she lived with her father, Christine's young ears often heard the terrible stories of street women being raped and although at the time the 6-year-old child did not understand, Christine now recalled their tears of shame and humiliation. One woman, who had been a dear friend of her mother before she had passed, had lived through such a horrible ordeal. Christine could barely recall her face, much less her name, but vividly remembered the many nights of endless sobbing that her mother's friend had endured. However in comparison to her attack, the pain from her womanhood recovered very quickly and she found that within a day there were no more tearing pains or aching pulsations. No, she thought. It all had to be from when that bastard had kicked her or at least from that blow in particular.

Surveying the dressing room Christine found that the general structure of it remained, as most of the _Opera Populaire_, unchanged. When she had occupied it the walls were, at the very least, five feet thick in flowers and gifts from admirers. Now the walls were bare and the creamy white wall paint chipped away in many places. The large oil painting of La Carlotta had been removed from the far end, _of course it was removed only after I left,_ Christine thought, remembering all the countless occasions she had requested for the picture to be removed. It was not like Christine had anything personal against Carlotta, but having a portrait of your rival in your dressing area was a little out of the question. Near the mirror was the same dressing screen that Christine had used so many times in the past. It remained much as it had been in neither good or ill condition but in a mediocre state.

Christine sighed as she sunk down onto the cold floors. It seemed way too early for even for practices to even begin. Christine felt a wave of guilt wash over her as she sat in the corner. How was she going to explain this to Raoul? As a child one was always told to tell the truth, but in her case it was out of the question. '_I'm sorry Raoul. As it turns out I only love you in a friendship sort of way, and instead have fallen back in love with the Phantom of the Opera'. _Even in her mind the words sounded too stupid and utterly ridiculous. What was she going to do? With every increasing moment she spent with Erik, the more her conflicted emotions burned. It was like someone had taken a white hot poker and inserted it right into her chest. However Christine knew that sooner or later she would have to return to Raoul and explain her absence. There was no doubt he would react in a rage. Who wouldn't be angry if their wife had spent an extended period of time with their rival? At the same time Christine knew that this whole experience had to be taking its toll on Erik as well. He had tried so hard to keep her from running away with Raoul and now suddenly his wildest dreams had come true and he was with his first and only love again. _Everything must be worse ten-fold for him,_ Christine thought while scolding herself for thinking only of her own wants and needs. It had been something she had been doing too much of recently. Ever since she read the newspaper article everything on her mind had been for her own want and benefits. How could she just discard Raoul like that? After everything he had done and given her, how could she do that? The answer floated in her mind itching to be said out loud, but Christine refused to say it.

_Because I love him. _

No, she point black refused to say it aloud. Speaking it would only confirm it all the more and what would Erik say if he overheard her? It would give him false hope that she would remain at his side and cast away her high society aristocratic life with Raoul. Erik would no doubt lose what bit of his sanity he kept if she left him again. Christine let out a sigh of frustration. "You're damned if you do and damned if you don't," she resigned.

Strangely she felt no fear or apprehension to the fact that the men who had taken her were just a few yards below her feet. She knew that there was no reason to fear them. Erik was there to guard and protect her. There was nothing they could do to her while Erik still breathed. And even then, his spirit would haunt them till the day they died of fright from a ghost. Christine laughed, _and then he really would be the 'Opera Ghost'. _Christine jerked her head up at the sound of footsteps on the other side of the door.

Her heart began to race in fright. What would happen if she was found? There was no doubt that she would be returned to Raoul immediately, and that would only produce negativity and, no doubt, a few more lifeless corpses. Christine could feel the lump of dread begin to rise in her throat as the brass door handle began to turn. She could do nothing but pray that it was either Linette or even Papillon that opened that door. Bracing herself for the worst Christine didn't even dare to breathe as the door creaked open.

"Christine?" exclaimed a familiar voice. She could not believe it. Christine stood there transfixed at her incredible luck. There in the door way was Meg Giry. She rose to meet her best friend's flabbergasted expression. "My God, what are you doing here?" Meg said. The young blonde surveyed her friend standing right there before her. "What happened?" she said, taking note of Christine's many bruises and partially swollen eye.

"Please Meg, don't tell anyone," Christine pleaded. Without word nor warning, Meg ran head on and embraced her best friend. Christine stood there wide-eyed for a second but then returned her friend's gesture.

"Oh Christine… We were all so worried," Meg cried into her best friend's shoulder.

"Meg…" Christine said.

"But why are you here and not with the Vicomte?" Meg asked, pulling away from the embrace with jubilant tears in her eyes. "And what happened to you? You look like you have been beaten within an inch of your life," she said concerned.

"Meg, please you can't tell anyone….," Christine said. Even though Meg was her best friend under the light of the heavens, she needed her word of silence. If even a mere whisper got to Raoul…Christine shuddered at the thought.

"Don't worry Christine, no one will ever hear of it from me," Meg promised.

With a sigh and a heavy heart, Christine began to pour out what had happened to her over the past few days.

VIVMXIXMVIV

END CHAPTER.

Well how do you like it? I hope you like it a lot.

Like I said earlier, this will be my last update before I take off with my dad. Don't yell at me, I barely get to see my dad and I miss him.

I am seeing Star Wars this weekend! Booyeah! I cannot wait Darth Vader rules.

Please review, it makes me feel so happy and loved. It also helps you because I will write faster. Who knows, maybe if I get…lets say…10 review, I just MIGHT put my ass to the grass and get out one more chapter before I leave. Please note that is a big fat MIGHT, but you could always get lucky. 10 reviews…

57 days, 2 hours, and 50 minutes to Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince

I remain, readers, your obedient author,

E.M.


	8. Who The Hell is Fadil?

And now, my friends, for chapter 8!

I am so sorry for my extended leave of absence. A month and a half! But I had the time of my bloody life with dad and in New York City. Updates will resume as per norm until band camp. Then I will most likely take another leave because band camp really knows how to kick you in the ass. On the positive hand, I lost 7 lbs in New York!

**Disclaimer: **All is property of Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lyod Webber and all those good people. The plot and characters you don't recognized (Zahir, Annfwn, Jacque) are MINE. No touchie!

Star Wars was awesome. Poor Anakin… (Snuggles him and Vader). For a full review see my live-journal (the link can be found under my homepage in my profile)

**Warnings: **The usual, language, violence, sexuality, and Raoul drunk. And cousinly hatred (not like that, pervs…)

**Notes: **I just want some feed back on this…I tired really hard to keep my story from revolving on a whim on my original characters (i.e. Zahir) but it really seems that it is turning out that way. What do you think of Zahir? Do I make him believable enough? Is he humane enough with strengths and weaknesses? If anyone out there hates Zahir's character, please let me know exactly why you hate him so I can keep my story from turning south. I will admit this right now; Annfwn will play a part also but just not as big of a one as Zahir. What do you think of her?

**Author's Note: _IMPORTANT_: **This story is NOT based off of Susan Kay's works. Erik's past in here has nothing to do with Kay's interpretation of if, and although I have said this before I will say it again, this is from the original Leroux version. Leroux left a lot of questions unanswered so this is more or less how I envisioned everything. Do not go flaming me saying that 'this-and-this' did not happen in Susan Kay's work, I know, because this is not based from Kay's novel. Get it! Got it! Good. All flames will be read, laughed at in their ignorance for not reading this, and deleted.

MXIXVXIXM

Erik's yellow eyes darted to and fro in his cavernous darkness. With Christine safely inside her old dressing room, he would have no qualms about killing the foolish sons-of-scum who dared to return. Ayesha's amber lanterns shone through distinctly as she slinked in and out of the shadows. A surge of affection hit Erik towards his feline friend; it had been she who alerted him to the presence of intruders. Ayesha glared at Erik, but then slid off out of sight. Erik felt no worry, she would be back, Ayesha would always return to him. Soon he found himself in the brink of the mirror entrance into his house. The sound of pillaging and ransacking vanished and instead was replaced by three sets of quiet voices.

Erik put his ear up to the door, listening for anything that might prove useful. He gripped his Punjab tightly just waiting for the right opportunity. Given the situation, Erik knew that he was not thinking with the best rational, but he didn't care. _Wait a second, _Erik pondered, _if they wanted Christine, wouldn't they wish to keep their voices down and all other noise to a minimum? _The three voices outside were clearly making no effort not to be heard and talked rather openly. Keeping his presence unknown, Erik listened and waited at the three intruders.

One, he could easily distinguish as a woman. Her voice was high pitched and heavily accented; Erik could easily tell that French was not her first language, or even her second. The second voice was man's voice, deep, calm and serene. It boomed deeply in echoes against the walls. Erik thought for a second where he had heard it before, but dismissed the thought; the only people that knew he was alive was Christine, the two bi-products if dirt he had killed, and that foolish little opera brat. The man's French was slightly broken, but spoken with general ease. Erik could not define the third voice, who rarely spoke at all. The main reason he knew there was three people was he heard three distinct sets of steps. Leaning in closer, Erik listened to their conversation.

"Cousin are you sure this is the right place?" the deep masculine baritone voice questioned.

"Or has he just simply led us on another wild goose chase," the woman's voice criticized.

Erik could hear the third person sigh with annoyance, "Would you have preferred it in your cell?" he said dryly. Erik could sparsely believe it. _What is the Daroga doing here? _For sure, if he possessed even the merest ounce of common sense, Nadir would have run as far from France as his legs would carry him. "Either you still your tongue, or I will do the world a courtesy by removing it. We are in the correct place, but where Ghazwan is I cannot say," Nadir finished.

_Ghazwan…I have not been called that in many long years…but who else would know me by that name? _

"And how would proceed in removing it? Would you be the brute that double-crossed me and slowly saw it away with a dull knife, or would you take pity on your poor, thieving, uneducated cousin and use a sharp blade?" the unknown male voice replied bitterly.

"Neither, I would simply deport you back to Persia and allow the authorities to have that honor. After all, even twenty years later, the wrath of the daroga dose not fade the slightest bit," Nadir spat back. Erik, for the first time in many years, was confused by what was going on just on the other side of a piece of wood. Who were the other two people? Why would Nadir Khan lead them back to his lair, and most certainly death?

"I do not doubt that, and they will be even more enraged when they find your head wrapped in Baghdad silk on their stoop," the other man threatened.

A pause ensured afterwards, but even from the other side of the door, Erik could feel the tension.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph, will you two just stop acting like foolish children and focus on the task at hand," the woman's voice piped up impatiently. "Honestly, men think with their jewels and not their heads," she added.

Deciding that Erik had enough of listening to their petty arguing he flipped the latch to his door. He walked through the door, Punjab in hand, with his cloak swaying menacingly. Immediately all three intruders silenced their squabbles and Erik emerged from the shadows with a smirk on his face. The unknown man and woman halted in their steps and Nadir said nothing, looking at his friend in a mixture of shock and friendship. "Daroga, what are you doing here?" Erik demanded. He enjoyed the looks of shock on all three people. Upon surveying the unknown man, Erik knew automatically knew that he was of some sort of Arabic heritage, whether or not it was from Persia, Iraq, Afghanistan, Iran, Saudi Arabia or any other Muslim country. He bore an uncanny resemblance to Nadir; the pair could practically pass as brothers save for eye color and bodily physique.

"Erik, old friend, you must listen to what I have to say," Nadir pleaded to his old friend. "This is Zahir, you may remember him from Persia," Nadir pointed to his cousin.

"Zahir? Is he not the one you referred to as 'my accursed blood abomination'?" Erik teased darkly, noting the extremely offended look on Zahir's face. Now that he thought about it, Erik could recollect meeting Zahir around the same time when he had to be smuggled away. Erik had originally thought of him to be a clever man, and not one to linger in trouble. _How wrong I was. _If Zahir was smart enough, he would have remained in Persia, even under a false alias, than come to his dark lair. "Yes, Daroga. But that still dose not explain why he is here. You are lucky," Erik directed at Zahir and the redheaded woman next to him, "If you were with anyone but the Daroga then you would find my lasso on your neck"

"I was getting there my friend," Nadir said. "Listen, you are in danger. It is no coincidence that Christine was captured and brought here, of all places. I doubt those two bumbling morons knew any more than you do, my friend," Nadir continued in all seriousness. Erik looked at his old friend. Why would he be in danger? Only he, Christine, and now Zahir as well as the woman knew he was alive. Everyone else believed him to be dead.

"Daroga, why do you say this? None besides yourselves know that I am still alive…I made sure of that," Erik said impatiently and slightly annoyed. It was strangely ironic that in a futile attempt to produce his own death that those around him did indeed to believe the Phantom to be gone. Originally he had been furious when he woke up a few short hours later in much the same condition, only with a severe aching temple. Apparently overdosing on Opium was not the smartest path to commit suicide. It took him three weeks to regain his motor skills fully without the aid of a professional, and Erik would be damned before he revealed his lump of flesh to still be breathing. No doubt that the Vicomte boy would march right down to the _Opera Populaire_ and shoot him on the spot. The mere thought of Raoul sent Erik's blood boiling and he soon dismissed all traces of the Vicomte.

"Alas, in France you are thought to be dead. But in other places—"

"The Persian royals know me to be dead, unless you bumbled my smuggling and fake death," Erik sharply cut Nadir short. The Sultan and Sula knew him to be dead. That was it, case closed. Who else would know he was alive? Even more so, who would know he was here and would take Christine?

"I am not talking about Persia. My friend, I know very little of your past, but word has reached my ear that Fadil is still alive and eager for revenge," Nadir finished quickly, not daring to take in a breath. Even Erik spoke sparsely on the subject of Fadil and the Gypsy circus camp. Nadir couldn't blame him, if he had that sort of past, there was no doubt that he would never speak of it.

"Fadil is dead! I murdered him myself. My first victim," Erik growled dangerously. Nadir was stepping onto unsteady soil and he would not tolerate his jokes. Fadil deserved every once of pain he slowly inflicted on the man. Even Erik wouldn't call that brute, Fadil, a man.

"Alas, Allah has carved out a tedious path for you my friend. Indeed, Fadil is dead, but his son Fadil II still draws breath. He will not forgive his father's murder. He was a mere lad when you killed his father, as you had the right to, but now he lives for revenge," Nadir confessed. It had been by pure accident and coincidence that he knew of Fadil's plan for revenge.

"Daroga, how do you know this?" Erik skeptically inquired. If Nadir was lying, Erik would kill him slowly, painfully and tortuously, as well as Zahir and the still unidentified woman. No one had the right to tread upon his past, and Erik would kill all those who dared. _Although I doubt that none would want to venture down that way._ His past would leave most people scarred just from listening to it, much less living it. Erik would not tolerate it. The past was over, never to be tread upon again.

"I cannot say, my friend. My head would be upon a wooden pike if I were to speak it aloud. Erik, why would I tell you this if it were not true? You must leave at once. Christine as well. I have no doubt that it was you who killed at least one of cronies he sent to take Christine. The other is alive, barely, but still breathing none-the-less"

"Do you mean that strange man who was after the Vicomtess?" Zahir asked, daring to speak up in all the confusion. He knew not who this Fadil was, nor did he care. But at the sight of Ghazwan alive, even well, was shocking and confusing to no end. Zahir almost pitied Annfwn; she knew even less and surely was more flaggergasted than he. "But what dose the wife of that whelp have anything to do with this 'Christine'?" Zahir demanded.

"Zahir, remain silent. You shall be informed in due time," Nadir glared at his cousin.

"No cousin, I will not be kept in the dark about this matter. I am already free, I could just leave now and be done with you all," Zahir said acidly.

"Yes, you could leave. But by next light, the bounty on your head would total in so many Francs that every bounty hunter in France would be hot on your trail," Nadir threatened. Zahir was his only chance of getting Erik and Christine out of the country, he would not lose it.

"Both of you quit your boyish squabbling," Annfwn said, folding her arms in vexation.

"Ah yes, and what benefit would you bring by the Daroga freeing you?" Erik directed at the woman for the first time. He glared at her menacingly, but she just returned the cold expression with fire.

"Erik, I can buy you a passage out of France and to safety in Persia. I myself cannot return, my previous flight has ensured that, but my cousin can smuggle you two in safely. Fadil dose not expect you to return to Persia with your many enemies. Zahir can keep you two in safe hiding," Nadir finished.

Erik stood there debating what to do. There was no doubt he had many enemies in Persia, but he had enemies everywhere. But if Fadil was alive…or rather the spawn of the bastard he would find no rest. "What of the Vicomte?" Erik questioned.

"He thinks you to be dead, or else he would have ravaged this place already. He is searching everywhere for Christine but you are not on the list of suspects," Nadir informed.

"And it will remain that way," Erik said. "Whether or not I flee".

"My friend, I cannot linger. You must choose now. Zahir and Annfwn will get you two to safety, and in safety you will remain until this is solved," Nadir pleaded.

"Then flee. I will not be moved. Let them come if they will. Let them come and meet with my Torture Chamber and become closely acquainted with my lasso," Erik finished. He would not move. Christine was safe as long as she was with him. He would allow no harm to come to her. The fool who even fathomed of harming her would soon meet the light at the end of the tunnel.

"Would you really gamble her life on such unsteady circumstances," Nadir said, hitting Erik's only weak spot. He would do anything for the Vicomtess, as Nadir well knew. It was the only way that his stubborn friend could be consoled into safety. Nadir knew it was a very low blow, but fouls were always permitted in dirty matters.

Erik paused and resisted the urge to wrap his lasso around the daroga's throat. He dared to use Christine as leverage. Again a pregnant pause took the room as Erik thought the situation through. Knowing he would regret it, Erik spoke up, "Tell them to return at first light of tomorrow. We will be ready," he finished. Erik knew he was over-reacting to Nadir's deliberate usage of Christine, but he was willing to live with that. If Fadil's spawned brat was anything like his father, it would be in her best interest to leave.

XCICX

"Christine," Raoul groaned in agony. "Where are you?" he asked to no one in particular. The police had informed him that there had been no trace of Christine to be found at all. They had checked the Populaire, as well as every other opera house within the boundaries of Paris. She was no where to be found. It was as if she had just vanished into thin air. Raoul didn't know what to do. The phantom was dead, and there was no where else she could be. Raoul could only hope and pray with every fiber in his body that Christine was alive and not at the hands of some street scum thief. Raoul's head pounded painfully. The previous eve he had drowned himself in alcohol at the local pub. Raoul did not know where else to turn, everywhere else people shunned him away or called him boyish and stupid to get so worked up over an 'opera singer' wife. Luckily for him no one recognized him as the Vicomte de Chagny, just as another drunken fool drowning in grief and whiskey. The whiskey had been his only real release; nothing the police said helped to soothe his pains and worries. In just mere minutes Raoul had been caught up in the world of drunken ecstasy as he found himself in the midst of nearly a dozen beautiful street girls. The alcohol had been the deciding factor in bedding one of them, a slim blonde haired, blue eyed with more curves than he could shake a stick at. The Vicomte did not even recollect the memory of taking her, just the wild lust he felt as he released himself into her, and away from reality. He paid her well for her services, but and Raoul swiftly left returning to the de Chagny mansion smelling of whiskey and sex. He cared not for what whisperings that was no doubt being spread among the servants. With no questions asked, Raoul had been immediately taken to his exquisitely furnished room and lied down to sleep off his drunken stupor.

A gentle knock to the door pulled Raoul out from his trance. "Monsieur, it is me, Hans," said the cheerful voice of one of his man servants. In a click, Hans entered the room with his bright complexion and sparkling eyes. Raoul was almost sickened at his bouncy nature and attitude so early in the morning. Raoul watched as the youth went across the room and spread the large mahogany draperies. The Vicomte squinted in pain as the sun hit him and drew his hand up to block out the light. "Master was sure out late last night. You would not even begin to fathom the rumors being spread," Hans piped up.

"Rumors are just that, rumor. I care not for their words," Raoul said dryly. He was in no disposition to deal with Hans so early in the morning, especially with a pounding hangover.

"That's true. Are you alright? Is there anything you need to talk about?" Hans inquired, taking a seat on the brink of the large canopy bed.

"No—thank you Hans. It is just concern for my wife," Raoul replied, just wanting for Hans to disappear into thin air, knowing that it would not happen. He had a business meeting that day and had put off too much work looking for Christine to avoid it. Raoul cursed his high ranking title.

"Oh, I see. Don't fret over it, everything will turn out all right in the end," Hans consoled cheerfully. "In any case, Mousier Smith from England is awaiting you downstairs. I told him you would be several minuets," the youth bubbled.

Raoul moaned in annoyance. Mr. Smith was the very last person he wanted to deal with, especially with a hangover. Mr. Smith was a rough tongued and brutally honest business man, clever in his own work experience but deaf to the world around him. He could smell a scam a mile away but not know, or even care, of his own wife was eloping with another man. Raoul sent Hans away and went to go dress. It was going to be one long day.

MVIVM

"Oh Christine," Meg consoled her best friend, who was sitting in the dark corners. Upon hearing her story, Meg understood why Christine chose to keep it to herself. But on the other hand, she scarcely dared to believe that infamous Phantom of the Opera was still alive, kicking and living in the lake under the _Opera Populaire. _Surely the new owner, Monsieur DeCour would have spoken or at least given some indication if the Phantom was writing letters to him, as he always did with each new owner. Unfortunately Firmin and Andre were just two stupid to comprehend his demands. Her mother had told Meg everything about what had transpired shortly after the chandelier feel.

Christine felt warm and numb all in the same moment. It was so strange to have someone to confide in. Living as the high class Vicomtess de Chagny did not allow room for friends, or confessions of your true emotions to someone other than God. She didn't even talk to Raoul, only on the rare occasion what it was needed. Christine shuddered at the topic of their last true conversation—it was not a memory she wished to relive. But with Meg she could tell her anything, and Christine told her everything. "I'm surprised that Raoul hasn't searched here yet," she commented.

"On the contrary, he came here twice. Once with the police and once on his own. He bribed the new owners with everything, money, power, posterity for any lead of sorts to your location. But to no avail, no one knew where you were. His daughter, Linette I believe her name is, seemed quite upset and distraught at your disappearance. I didn't know what to think when the Vicomte burst in here twice demanding information," Meg said, sinking down to her best friend's eye level.

"Please don't tell Raoul I'm here," Christine asked softly. She did not wish to ponder, much less see, what would transpire if Raoul found her in her current state and met face to face with Erik again.

"Why?" Meg inquired. Christine laughed; indeed it was a valid question. They seemed such a happy couple when they were together and now all the sudden she could not stand of Raoul knew the truth. "What happened?" the blonde young woman pushed.

It was a subject Christine would rather avoid in general. It was the subject of her marriage. It was not joyful and jubilant, nor was it the wealthy life of a happy, rich, sociable noble woman. And yet it was not bad either. That was the terrible thing about her marriage; it was terrible, gruesome and confining, while being comforting and secure all in the same moment. Most women had no problem distinguishing the current affair of their matrimony, but no—she had to be cursed with having it being many things at once, both happy and sad. There was no doubt her life had changed drastically to a life that any man or woman would kill, or commit any other crime at that, to possess. Christine did indeed have many maid servants to wait on her beck and call, but everything was cold and held no real warmth of human comfort. Her life had not the existence of hardship, but instead she had to deal with the dozens of stuck-up, snotty rich Countesses that cared only for money, the latest fashion, and the newest gossip. It was very cold in that aspect, especially considering the whole scandal that enveloped her former title of La Daae, and the connection with the infamous "Phantom". On more than one occasion it had been made widely known that most thought of her to have slept with Erik before marrying Raoul, and that she was nothing but a deceiving gold-digger. Christine cared little for their petty unknowing words and insults, but it was lonely not having a true friend to confide in. The issue of producing a child had become more and more relevant. She was asked on nearly a daily basis on whether or not she believed to have conceived. Raoul arranged monthly doctor visits, becoming frivolously desperate for any news of an heir. Sex was little more than a nightly duty to fulfill with her husband, and there was little, if no pleasure taken in it.

Christine dodged Meg's question and said nothing in return. Meg sank down to her level and hugged her friend consolingly and comfortingly. Christine was grateful to have a real friend again—or rather see her best one. She was just about to answer Meg's inquiry when the sound of banging metal and wood was heard. Both women turned to see the mirror jump to life and Erik step out from beneath its murky depths.

Meg gasped. "You're supposed to be dead," she shrieked! Her mother had told her as much, and when the paper headlines read _Erik is Dead _it confirmed Madame Giry's words.

"And by all means, I will remain dead," Erik growled at the blonde trembling figure. His yellow eyes flashed danger and heed to his words. He had entered on the butt end of their conversation, and as tempting as it was to listen to what Christine had to confess in the presence of her best friend, he was in no mood to listen to anyone's harping.

"Erik wh—" Christine began but was acutely cut off. Erik had grabbed a hold of her wrist and drug her back into his mysterious labyrinth.

MIXIXVIXIM

END CHAPTER.

Again, I am so sorry this took so damn long to get out.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the book, Erik was no abused or tortured at the Gypsy Camp. He ran away and joined the gypsies and traveled with them. That is one thing that REALLY PISSED me off about the musical and movie. Baka ALW. How do you think he became a magician!

Enough said on that, thus give too much away.

Please R&R. Don't flame me about my absence. All flames will be read, laughed at, and deleted. Much to my amusement and to your dismay.

I remain, readers, your obedient author,

E.M.


End file.
